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^iberi0?itie <!Eliition 



THE WRITINGS OF BRET HARTE 

VOLUME XII 



V 



POEMS 



AND 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 
at SE>rama 



BY 

BRET HARTE 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 



«»PLEASA..X T^l^^O 



Copyright, 1870, 
By fields, OSGOOD & CO. 

Copyright, 1874 and 1876, 

Bt JAMES B. OSGOOD & CO. 

Copyright, 1882, 1896, 1902, and 1904, 

Bt HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Copyright, 1898, 

Bt BRET HARTE. 

Copyright, 1910 and 1912, 

Bt anna 6RISW0LD HARTB. 

All rights reserved. 



T1ULN8FBR 
t>. O. PUBLIC LIBJEUX7 



nig. 






644680 



DI3TBI0T OF COLUMBIA PROP^ 
^CBANWBRRBaD FROM PUBI^O LIBRABX 



PUBLISHEES' NOTE 

A collection of Mr. Harte's Poems was made by the 
pcj author in 1882 which has done service ever since ; but on 
if^ the occasion of a new and more comprehensive edition of 
^ his writings, this volume has been carefully revised by the 
ti author. The original classification has been retained, but 
the opportunity has been taken to add to the several sec- 
tions the poems heretofore uncollected, so that the present 
is the fullest collection yet made of Mr. Harte's poetical 
® writings. As in the earlier edition, the prose drama of 
Two Men of Sandy Bar is grouped with the poems. 






CONTENTS 

I. NATIONAL. 

PAGB 

JoH» Burns op Gettysburg . . . , # • , , l 

** How ARE YOU, Sanitary ? " 5 

Battle Bunny ...T 

The Reveille ,, lo 

Our Privilege , , , ,.12 

Relieving Guard . . ,, 13 

The Goddess ••..14 

On a Pen of Thomas Starr King 16 

;^Second Review of the Grand Army . . . . .17 

XgE Copperhead 20 

A Sanitary Message 21 

The Old Major Explains ......... 23 

California's Greeting to Seward ...... 25 

The Aged Stranger 27 

The Idyl of Battle. Hojulow 29 

Caldwem. of^Springfield 31 

Poem, Delivered on the T^ourteenth Anniversary of Cal- 
ifornia's Admission into the Union 38 

Miss Blanche says 3^ 

An Arctic Vision ..40 

St. Thomas 42 

Off Scarborough 45 

Cadet Grey 49 

II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 

The Miracle op Padre Junipero 67 

The Wonderful Spring op San Joaquin .... 70 

The Angelus ,.74 

CoNCEPCioN de Arguello 76 

•"FOR THE King" . • 83 

Ramon ...., 90 

Don Diego of the South. •••.••••93 
At the Hacienda ..•••••••• 97 



viii CONTENTS 

Friar Pedro*s Ride ........•• 98 

In the Mission Garden . 104 

The Lost Galleon . • . . 106 

III. IN DIALECT. 

«JlM^' 112 

CH19UITA 115 

Dow's Flat 118 

In THE Tunnel 122 

"Cicely" .124 

Penelope 127 

Plain Language from Truthful James 129 

The Society upon the Stanislaus ...... 132 

Luke ...■ 134 

"The Babes in the Woods" 139 

The Latest Chinese Outrage ....... 142 

Truthful James to the Editor . . * . . . . 146 

An Idyl of the Koad 149 

Thompson of Angels 152 

The Hawk's Nest 155 

Her Letter 157 

His Answer to "Her Letter" 160 

"The Return of Belisarius" 163 

Further Language from Truthful James . . . . 165 

After the Accident 168 

The Ghost that Jim saw 170 

"Seventy-Nine" 172 

The Stage-Driver's Story 175 

A Question of Privilege 178 

The Thought-Reader of Angels ...... 180 

The Spelling Bee at Angels 183 

Artemis in Sierra -« . • . 188 

Jack of the Tules 192 

IV. MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Greyport Legend •. 195 

A Newport Romance 197 

San Francisco 200 

The Mountain Heart' s-Ease 202 

Grizzly 204 

Madrono 205 

Coyote 206 



CONTENTS 



iz 



To A Sea-Bird • . • , 207 

What the Chimney Sako 208 

Dickens in Camp 209 

Twenty Years 211 

Fate 213 

Grandmother Tenterden ...*.... 214 

Guild's Signal 217 

Aspiring Miss Delaine 219 

A Legend of Cologne ......... 225 

The Tale of a Pony ,......,, 234 

On a Cone of thh Big Trees ...,,., 238 

Lone Mountain 240 

Alnaschar ............ 241 

The Two Ships 243 

Address (Opening of the California Theatre, San Fran- 
cisco, January 19, 1870) 244 

Dolly Varden , 246 

Telemachus versus Mentor 248 

What the Wolf really said to Little Red Eiding-Hood 252 

Half an Hour before Supper ....... 253 

What the Bullet sang 256 

The Old Camp-Fire 257 

The Station-Master op Lone Prairie 261 

The Mission Bells of Monterey ...••. 264 

"Crotalus" 265 

On William Francis Bartlett 267 

The Birds of Cirencester 269 

Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Person . . , 273 

Her Last Letter: being a Reply to "His Answer"' . , 275 

V. PARODIES. 

Before the Curtain . , 279 

To the Pliocene Skull 280 

The Ballad of Mr. Cooke 282 

The Ballad of the Emeu 286 

Mrs. Judge Jenkins 288 

A Geological Madrigal . . . • • . • . 291 

AviTOR ..•.. 293 

The Willows 295 

North Beach , 298 

The Lost Tails of Miletus . •••••• . 299 

The Ritualist •• ... 300 

A Moral Vindicator ,. . • • . . • • * 301 



X CONTENTS 

California Madrigal ....*•••• 803 

What the Emgines said • . » 304 

The Legends of the Rhine . . . • • • • 306 

Songs without Sense « • 308 

VI. LITTLE POSTERITY. 

Master Johnny's Next-Door Neighbor . • • . 310 

Miss Edith's Modest Request 313 

Miss Edith makes it Pleasant for Brother Jack . • 316 

Miss Edith makes another Friend 318 

What Miss Edith saw from her Window • • . e 320 

On the Landing 323 

Notes 327 

TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 329 

Index of First Lines •• 451 

Index of Titles .,.••••••• i56 



POEMS 

I. NATIONAL 

JOHN BUENS OF GETTYSBUKG 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 

Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well s 

Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns. 

He was the fellow who won renown, — 

The only man who did n't back down 

When the rebels rode through his native towil| 

But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July sixty -three, 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry, 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 

I might tell how but the day before 
John Burns stood at his cottage door. 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine. 
And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 



NATIONAL 

The milk that fell like a babbling flood 

Into the milk-pail red as blood ! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 

Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 

Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine^, • 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folk say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 

Kaged for hours the heady fight, 

Thundered the battery's double bass, — 

Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the living waves 

That all that day unceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Round shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain. 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 
Erect and lonely stood old John Burns, 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 

How do you think the man was dressed ? 

He wore an ancient long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; 

And buttoned over his manly breast 

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called " swaller.'* 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the village green. 

Since old John Burns was a country beau, 

And went to the " quiltings " long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day. 
Veterans of the Peninsula, 
Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 
And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 
Then at the rifle his right hand bore, 
And hailed him, from out their youthful lore. 
With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 
<^ How are you, ^Vhite Hat ? '' " Put her through !^ 
" Your head 's level ! " and " Bully for you ! " 
Called him ^' Daddy," — begged he 'd disclose 
The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 
And what was the value he set on those ; 
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff. 
Stood there picking the rebels off, — 
With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'T was but a moment, fcir that respect 

WTiich clothes all courage their voices checked; 



4 NATIONAL 

And sometliing the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old hell-crown ; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair, 
The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar. 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns ; 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question 's whether 
You '11 show a hat that 's white, or a feather ! 



"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY ?>» 

Down the picket-guarded lane 

Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 

Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 
Soldier-like and merry : 

Phrases such as camps may teach, 

Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 

Such as '' Bully ! " " Them 's the peach ! ^ 
" Wade in. Sanitary ! " 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 
Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military ; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze. 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — « 
^< U. S. San. Com." " That 's the cheese ! '' 

" Pass in. Sanitary ! " 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won : 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo ! was stationary ; 
And where bullets whistling fly 
Came the sadder, fainter cry, 
** Help us, brothers, ere we die, ■ — 

Save us. Sanitary ! " 

Such the work. The phantom flies. 
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 



NATIONAL 

But the brave — whose dying eyes, 

Veiled and visionary, 
See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride ; 

" Pass in, Sanitary ! " 



BATTLE BUNNY \ 

(mALVERN hill, 1864) 

" After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had 
been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and mus- 
ketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a corporalt'* — 
Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill, 

Bunny, lying in the grass, 
Saw the shining column pass 5 
Saw the starry banner fly, 
Saw the chargers fret and fume, 
Saw the flapping hat and plume, — 
Saw them with his moist and shy 
Most unspeculative eye. 
Thinking only, in the dew, 
That it was a fine review. 

Till a flash, not all of steel. 
Where the rolling caissons wheel, 
Brought a rumble and a roar 
Rolling down that velvet floor, 
And like blows of autumn flail 
Sharply threshed the iron hail. 

Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, 
Raised his soft and pointed ears, 
Mumbled his prehensile lip. 
Quivered his pulsating hip. 
As the sharp vindictive yell 
Rose above the screaming shell; 



NATIONAL 

Thought the w.orld and all its men, — 
All the charging squadrons meant, — 
All were rabbit-hunters then, 
All to capture him intent. 
Bunny was not much to blame : 
Wiser folk have thought the same, — » 
Wiser folk who think they spy 
Every ill begins with " I." 

Wildly panting here and there, 
Bunny sought the freer air, 
Till he hopped below the hill. 
And saw, lying close and still. 
Men with muskets in their hands. 
(Never Bunny understands 
That hypocrisy of sleep, 
In the vigils grim they keep. 
As recumbent on that spot 
They elude the level shot.) 

One — a grave and quiet man. 

Thinking of his wife and child 

Far beyond t^he Eapidan, 

Where the Androscoggin smiled — 

Felt the little rabbit creep, 

Nestling by his arm and side. 

Wakened from strategic sleep. 

To that soft appeal replied. 

Drew him to his blackened breast. 

And — But you have guessed the rest. 

Softly o'er that chosen pair 
Omnipresent Love and Care 
Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, 
Shielding them from every harm; 



BATTLE BUNNY 

Right and left the bullets waved, 
Saved the saviour for the saved. 



Who believes that equal grace 
God extends in every place, 
Little difference he scans 
'Twixt a rabbit's God and man's. 



THE REVEILLE 

Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands. 

And of armed men the hum ; 
Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Bound the quick alarming drum, — 
Saying, " Come, 
Freemen, come ! 
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum. 

" Let me of my heart take counsel : 
War is not of life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come ? " 
But the drum 
Echoed, ^' Come ! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn- 
sounding drum. , 

" But when won the coming battle. 
What of profit springs therefrom ? 
What if conquest, subjugation. 
Even greater ills become ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee answer 
ing drum. 

" What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 



THE REVEILLE 11 

When my brothers fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? " 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
Better there in death united, than in life a recreant. -— 
Come ! " 

Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some, 
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 
Said, " My chosen people, come ! " 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb. 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 
" Lord, we come I " 



CUE PEIYILEGE 

Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, 

And battle dews lie wet, 
To meet the charge that treason hurls 

By sword and bayonet. 

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 
The fleshless Eeaper wields ; 

The harvest moon looks calmly down 
Upon our peaceful fields. 

The long grass dimples on the hill, 

The pines sing by the sea, 
And Plenty, from her golden horn, 

Is pouring far and free. 

O brothers by the farther sea ! 

Think stiii our faith is warm ; 
The same bright flag above us waves 

That swathed our baby form. 

The same red blood that dyes your fields 
Here throbs in patriot pride, — 

The blood that flowed when Lander fell, 
And Baker's crimson tide. 

And thus apart our hearts keep time 

With every pulse ye feel. 
And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime 

With V>ilor's clashing steel. 



RELIEVING GUARD 

THOMAS STARR KING. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864 

Came the relief. " What, sentry, ho ! 
How passed the night through thy long waking ? " 
^^ Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit 
The hour before the dawn is breaking." # 

" No sight ? no sound ? " " No ; nothing save 
The plover from the marshes calling, 
And in yon western sky, about 
An hour ago, a star was falling.'' 

" A star ? There 's nothing strange in that." 

" No, nothing ; but, above the thicket. 
Somehow it seemed to me that God 
Somewhere had just relieved a picket." 



THE GODDESS 

CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES* PATRIOTIO 
FUND OF The PACIFIC 

" Who comes ? " The sentry's warning cry 
Rings sharply on the evening air : 
Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, 
Yet something motions there. 

A woman, by those graceful folds ; 
A soldier, by that martial tread : 
" Advance three paces. Halt ! until 
Thy name and rank be said." 

" My name ? Her name, in ancient song, 
Who fearless from Olympus came : 
Look on me ! Mortals know me best 
In battle and in flame." 

" Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; 
I know that gleaming eye and helm, 
Those crimson lips, — and in their dew 
The best blood of the realm. 

" The young, the brave, the good and wise, 
Have fallen in thy curst embrace : 
The juices of the grapes of wrath 
Still stain thy guilty face. 



THE GODDESS 15 

" My brother lies in yonder field, 

Face downward to the quiet grass : 
Go back ! he cannot see thee now ; 
But here thou shalt not pass." 

A crack upon the evening air, 

A wakened echo from the hill : 
The watchdog on the distant shore 

Gives mouth, and all is still. 

The sentry with his brother lies 

Face downward on the quiet grass i 
And by him, in the pale moonshine, 

A shadow seems to pass. 

No lance or warlike shield it bears: 

A helmet in its pitying hands 
Brings water from the nearest brook, 

To meet his last demands. 

Can this be she of haughty mien. 

The goddess of the sword and shield ? 

Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet's myth 
Sways still each battlefield. 

For not alone that rugged War 

Some grace or charm from Beauty gains} 

But, when the goddess' work is done* 
The woman's still remains. 



ON A PEN OF THOMAS STAEE, KING 

This is the reed the dead musician dropped, 
With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden j 

The prompt allegro of its music stopped, 
Its melodies unbidden. 

But who shall finish the unfinished strain. 
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, 

And bid the slender barrel breathe again, 
An organ-pipe of thunder ! 

His pen ! what humbler memories cling about 

Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces 

Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out 
In smiles and courtly phrases ? 

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung ; 

The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; 
The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung 

The golden gift within it. 

But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave : 
No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : 

The incantation th&t its power gave 
Sleeps with the dead magician. 



A. SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY 

I READ last night of the grand review 
In Washington's chiefest avenue, — 
Two hundred thousand men in blue, 

I think they said was the number, — 
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet. 
The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat, 
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street. 
The cheers of people who came to greet, 
And the thousand details that to repeat 

Would only my verse encumber, — 
Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, 

And then to a fitful slumber. 

When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Far stretched the portico, dim and grand 
Its columns ranged like a martial band 
Of sheeted spectres, whom some command 

Had called to a last reviewing. 
And the streets of the city were white and bare j 
No footfall echoed across the square ; 
But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 

The sound of a far tattooing. 

Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; 
For into the square, with a brazen tread, 
There rode a figure whose stately head 



18 NATIONAL 

Overlooked the review that morning, 
That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet, 
Yet now rode steadily up the street 

To the phantom bugle's warning : 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
A well-known form that in State and field 

Had led our patriot sires : 
Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp. 
Afar through the river's fog and damp. 
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, 

Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come. 
With never a sound of fife or drum. 
But keeping time to a throbbing hum 

Of wailing and lamentation : 
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 
The men whose wasted figures fill 

The patriot graves of the nation. 

And there came the nameless dead, — the men 
Who perished in fever swamp and fen. 
The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; 

And, marching beside the others. 
Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, 
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright ; 
I thought — perhaps 't was the pale moonlight - 

They looked as white as their brothers ! 

And so all night marched the nation's dead, 
With never a banner above them spread, 



A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY 19 

Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
No mark — save the bare uncovered head 

Of the silent bronze Reviewer ; 
With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; 
With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves — for love could buy 

No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange array, 
So all night long till the morning gray 
I watched for one who had passed away, 

With a reverent awe and wonder, — 
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, 
And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
Had come ; and I spake — and lo ! that sign 

Awakened me from my slumber. 



THE COPPEEHEAD 

(1864) 

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, 
Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, 
Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, 
And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer. 
There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, 
Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree's breath, 
Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, — 
There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves. 

Go seek him ; he coils in the ooze and the drip. 
Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip ; 
But beware the false footstep, — the stumble that brings 
A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. 
Kever arrow so true, never bullet so dread. 
As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; 
Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest 
Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest ! 

Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men. 
In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den ? 
Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade 
To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made ; 
Let the breeze of the Korth sweep the vapors away. 
Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play ; 
And then to your heel can you righteously doom 
The Copperhead born ^f its shadow and gloom ! 



A SAOTTAEY MESSAGE 

Last night, above the whistling wind, 

I heard the welcome rain, — - 
A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane : 
The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 

A warlike trumpet blew ; 
Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife^ 

A softer voice stole through. 

^* Give thanks, O brothers ! " said the voice, 

" That He who sent the rains 
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew 

That drips from patriot veins : 
I 've seen the grass on Eastern graves 

In brighter verdure rise ; 
But, oh ! the rain that gave it life 

Sprang first from human eyes, 

" I come to wash away no stain 

Upon your wasted lea ; 
I raise no banners, save the ones 

The forest waves to me : 
Upon the mountain side, where Spring 

Her farthest picket sets, 
My reveille awakes a host 

Of grassy bayonets. 

'^ I visit every humble roof ; 
I m insole with the low ? 



22 NATIONAL 

Only upon the highest peaks 
My blessings fall in snow ; 

Until, in tricklings of the stream 
And drainings of the lea, 

My unspent bounty comes at last 
To mingle with the sea." 

And thus all night, above the wiiid, 

I heard the welcome rain, — 
A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane ; 
The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 

A warlike trumpet blew ; 
But, mingling with these sounds of strife;, 

This hymn of peace stole through. 



THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS 

(re-union, army of the POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 187l) 

Well, you see, the fact is. Colonel, I don't know as 1 

can come: 
For the farm is not half planted, and there *s work to do at 

home ; 
And my leg is getting troublesome, — it laid me up last 

fall, — 
And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never 

found the ball. 

And then, for an old man like me, ft 's not exactly right. 
This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. 
" The Union," — that was well enough way up to '66 ; 
But this " Ee-Union," maybe now it 's mixed with politics ? 

No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, 

my lad, 
I 'm deacon now, and some might think that the example 's 

bad. 
And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the 

twelfth of May ? 
Why, that 's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a ! 

Hot work ; eh, Colonel, was n't it ? Ye mind that narrow 

front : 
They called it the "Death-Angle " ! Well, well, 'my lad, 

we won't 
Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say 
I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May. 

\ 



24 NATIONAL 

How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, 
now I want to know ! 

The first man in the rebel works ! they called him ** Swear- 
ing Joe." 

A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then — 

Well, short of heaven, there wasn't a place he dursn't lead 
his men. 

And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it 's 

true 
We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? 
A little field below the hill, — it must be green this May ; 
Perhaps that 's why the fields about bring him to me to-day. 

Well, well, excuse me. Colonel ! but there are some things 

that drop 
The tail-board out one's feelings ; and the only way 's to 

stop. 
So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, 

eh? 
Well, I 've business down in Boston about the twelfth of 

May. 



CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWAED 

(1869) 

We know him well : no need of praise 

Or bonfire from the windy hill 
To light to softer paths and ways 

The world-worn man we honor still. 

No need to quote the truths he spoke 

That burned through years of war and shame^ 

While History carves with surer stroke 
Across our map his noonday fame. 

No need to bid him show the scars 
Of blows dealt by the Scsean gate, 

Who lived to pass its shattered bars, 
And see the foe capitulate ; 

Who lived to turn his slower feet 

Toward the western setting sun, 
To see his harvest all complete, 

His dream fulfilled, his duty done, 

The one flag streaming from the pole, 
The one faith borne from sea to sea : 

Tor such a triumph, and such goal. 
Poor must our human greeting be. 

Ah ! rather that the conscious land 
In simpler ways salute the Man, — 



26 NATIONAL 

The tall pines bowing where they stand, 
The bared head of El Capitan ! 

The tumult of the waterfalls, 
Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, 

The waving from the rocky walls, 
The stir and rustle of the trees ; 

Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, 
In sunset lands by sunset seas. 

The Young World's Premier treads the slope 
Of sunset years in calm and peace. 



THE AGED STRANGER 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR 

" I WAS with Grant " — the stranger said $ 
Said the farmer, " Say no more, 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch. 
For thy feet are weary and sore." 

" I was with Grant " — the stranger said ; 
Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board, 
And eat of my humble store. 

"How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 
I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

" I know him not," said the aged man, 
" And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant " — " Nay, nay, I know,'* 
Said the farmer, " say no more : 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 
Though it rend my bosom's core. 

« How fell he ? With his face to the foe. 
Upholding the flag he bore ? 



28 NATIONAL 

Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 
The uniform that he wore ! " 

" I can^ot tell," said the aged man, 

" And should have remarked before, 
That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war.'' 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
But beat with his fist full sore 

That aged man who had worked for Grant 
Some three years before the war. 



THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW 

(war of the rebellion, 1864) 

N"o, I won't, — thar, now, so ! And it ain't nothin', — no ! 
And thar 's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know ; 
And it 's " Belle, tell us, do ! " and it 's " Belle, is it true ? " 
And " Wot 's this yer yarn of the Major and you ? " 
Till I 'm sick of it all, — so I am, but I s'pose 
Thet is nothin' to you. . . , Well, then, listen ! yer goes f 

It was after the fight, and around us all night 
Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight ; 
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abe^. 
And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed ; 
And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh 
But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky. 

And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring. 
But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing. 
And a bird said " Kerchee ! " as it sat on a tree, 
As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me ; 
And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, 
When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow. 

When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw 
On the gate-post his bridle, and — what does he do 
But come down where I sat ; and he lifted his hat. 
And he says — well, thar ain't any need to tell that ; 
'T was some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, 
lEhet he asked for a drink, and he wanted — a kiss. 



80 NATIONAL 

Then I said (I was mad), " For the water, my lad, 

You ^re too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it 's as bad, — 

You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff. 

When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff. 

And he says, " You 're a trump ! Take my pistol, don't 

fear! 
But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear," 

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, 
Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, 
"When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light 
From the top of the little stone fence on the right, 
And I knew 't was a rifle, and back of it all 
Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! 

Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head 
Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead ; 
And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite 
Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright ! 
Went off — true as gospil ! — and, strangest of all, 
It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall ! 

Thet's all — now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it'g 
wrong, ^ 

And thar 's some wants to know to what side I belong ; 
But I says, " Served him right ! " and I go, all my might, 
In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; 
And as for the Major — sho ! gals, don't you know 
Thet — Lord ! thar 's his step in the garden below. 



CALDWELL OF SPEINGFIELD 

(new jersey, 1780) 

Hebe's the spot. Look around you. Above on the 

height 
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right 
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall, — 
You may dig anywhere and you '11 turn up a ball. 
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 

Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you 've 

heard 
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word 
Down at Springfield ? What, no ? Come — that 's bad ; 

why, he had 
All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name 
Of the " rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, 
For he loved the Lord God — and he hated King George ! 

He had cause, you might say ! When the Hessians that 

day 
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way 
At the " farms,'' where his wife, with a child in her arms, 
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew 
But God — and that one of the hireling crew 
Who -fired the shot ! Enough ! — there she lay, 
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away 1 



32 NATIONAL 

Did he preach — did he pray ? Think of him as you stand 
By the old church to-day, — think of him and his band 
Of militant ploughhoys ! See the smoke and the heat 
Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat ! 
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view — 
And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? 

Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch 
For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, 
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the 

road 
With his arms full of hymn-hooks, and threw down his load 
A-t their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots 
Bang his voice : " Put Watts into 'em ! Boys, give ^em 

Watts ! " 

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 
You may dig anywhere and you '11 turn up a ball — 
Bnt xiot always a hero like this — and that 's all. 



POEM 

DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALI< 
FORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 
1864 

We meet in peace, though from our native East 
The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast 
Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red 
With darker tints than those Aurora spread. 
Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed 
In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield. 
Still striving upward, in meridian pride. 
He climbed the walls that East and West divide, — > 
Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, 
And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. 

Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose 
From his high vantage o'er eternal snows ; 
There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings — 
Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; 
There bayonets glitter through the forest glades — 
Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful bla(ies ; 
There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave — 
Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; 
There the bold sapper with his lighted train — 
Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; 
Here the full harvest and the wain's advance — 
There the Grim Keaper and the ambulance. 

With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond 
Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond ? 



34 NATIONAL 

Why come we here — last of a scattered fold — • 
To pour new metal in the broken mould ? 
To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face, 
To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? 

Ah ! love of country is the secret tie 

That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky 5 

Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore, 

We meet together at the Nation's door. 

War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down 

Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, 

And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, 

From clustered village and from crowded mart. 

Part of God's providence it was to found 
A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground ; 
Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest 
Planted these pickets in the distant West, 
But He who first the Nation's fate forecast 
Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, 
Eock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time 
Should fit the people for their work sublime ; 
When a new Moses with his rod of steel 
Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, 
And the old miracle in record told 
To the new Nation was revealed in gold. 

Judge not too idly that our toils are mean. 
Though no new levies marshal on our green ; 
Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small. 
Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall. 
See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line ; 
There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; 
Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm 
Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm. 



ANNIVERSARY POEM 35 

What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow 
And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? 
Lo ! for each town new rising o'er our State 
See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, 
While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, 
Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall. 

For this, brothers, swings the fruitful vine, 
Spread our broad pastures with their countless kin© s 
For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, 
Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; 
For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed, 
Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast. 
Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere. 
She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear ; 
Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose 
Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; 
And the example of her liberal creed 
Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed. 

Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand 
To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land ; 
As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall 
Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall, — 
Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below 
Sees but the arching of the promised bow, — 
Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen. 
And the whole valley wakes a brighter green. 



MISS BLANCHE SAYS 

And you are the poet, and so you want 

Something — what is it ? — a theme, a fancy ? 
Something or other the Muse won't grant 

To your old poetical necromancy ; 
Why, one half you poets — you can't deny — 

Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, 
But sit in your attics and mope and sigh 
For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, 
When flesh and blood may be standing by 

Quite at your service, should you but greet her. 

What if I told you my own romance ? 

Women are poets, if you so take them. 
One third poet, — the rest what chance 

Of man and marriage may choose to make them* 
Give me ten minutes before you go, — 

Here at the window we '11 sit together. 
Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; 
Watching the world as it drifts below 
Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow : 

Is n't it pleasant, this bright June weather ? 

Well, it was after the war broke out. 

And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris ; 

Papa had contracts, and roamed about. 

And I — did nothing — for I was an heiress. 

Picked some lint, now I think ; perhaps 
Knitted some stockings — a dozen nearly ; 



MISS BLANCHE SAYS 37 

Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; 
Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps 
Quite at a profit. The " shoulder-straps " 

Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? 

Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat ! 

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, 
Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, 

And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; 
And day by day down the Avenue went 

Cavalry, infantry, all together, 
Till my pitying angel one day sent 
My fate in the shape of a regiment. 
That halted, just as the day was spent, 

Here at our door in the bright June weather, 

None of your dandy warriors they, — 

Men from the West, but where I know not ; 
Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray, 

With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot : 
And I opened the window, and, leaning there, 

I felt in their presence the free winds blowing. 
My neck and shoulders and arms were bare, — 
I did not dream they might think me fair, 
But I had some flowers that night in my hair, 

And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. 

And I looked from the window along the line, 

Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn. 
Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, 

And a dark face shone from the darkening columUj 
And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair. 

Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, 
And the next I found myself standing there 
With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, 



38 NATIONAL 

And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, 
Like a blood-drop falling on plume and f eathero 

Then I drew back quickly : there came a cheer, 

A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, 
And then it was over, and high and clear 

My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle. 
Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, 

And slowly and steadily, all together. 
Shoulder to shoulder and side to side. 
Rising and falling and swaying wide, 
But bearing above them the rose, my pride. 

They marched away in the twilight weather. 

And I leaned from my wind(7w and watched my rose 

Tossed on the waves of the surging column, 
Warmed from above in the sunset glows, 

Borne from below by an impulse solemn. 
Then I shut the window. I heard no more 

Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither, 
But lived my life as I did before. 
I did not go as a nurse to the war, — 
Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore, — 

So I did n't go to the hospital either. 

You smile, poet, and what do you ? 

You lean from your window, and watch life's column 
Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, 

Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; 
And an act, a gesture, a face — who knows ? — • 

Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you. 
And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows 
And down it flies like my red, red rose, 
And you sit and dream as away it goes, 

And think that your duty is done, — now don't you ? 



MISS BLANCHE SAYS 39 

I know your answer. I 'm not yet through. 

Look at this photograph, — " In the Trenches " ! 
That dead man in the coat of blue 

Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches 
Nothing ! — except that the sun paints true, 

And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded. 
And that 's my romance. And, poet, you 
Take it and mould it to suit your view ; 
And who knows but you may find it too 

Come to your heart once more, as mine did. 



A]Sr AECTIC VISION 

Where the short-legged Esquimaux 
"Waddle in the ice and snow, 
And the playful Polar bear 
Nips the hunter unaware ; 
Where by day they track the ermine^ 
And by night another vermin, — 
Segment of the frigid zone, 
Where the temperature alone 
Warms on St. Elias' cone ; 
Polar dock, where Nature slips 
From the ways her icy ships ; 
Land of fox and deer and sable. 
Shore end of our western cable, — 
Let the news that flying goes 
Thrill through all your Arctic floes, 
And reverberate the boast 
Prom the cliffs off Beechey^s coast, 
Till the tidings, circling round 
Every bay of Norton Sound, 
Throw the vocal tide-wave back 
To the isles of Kodiac. 
Let the stately Polar bears 
Waltz around the pole in pairs. 
And the walrus, in his glee, 
Bare his tusk of ivory ; 
While the bold sea-unicorn 
Calmly takes an extra horn ; 
All ye Polar skies, reveal your 



AN ARCTIC VISION AX 

Very rarest of parhelia ; 

Trip it, all ye merry dancers, 

In the airiest of " Lancers ; '' 

Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, 

One inch farther to the tide, 

Nor in rash precipitation 

Upset Tyndall's calculation. 

Know you not what fate awaits you, 

Or to whom the future mates you ? 

All ye icebergs, make salaam, — 

You belong to Uncle Sam ! 

On the spot where Eugene Sue 
Led his wretched Wandering Jew, 
Stands a form whose features strike 
E.USS and Esquimaux alike. 
He it is whom Skalds of old 
In their Runic rhymes foretold ; 
Lean of flank and lank of jaw. 
See the real Northern Thor ! 
See the awful Yankee leering 
Just across the Straits of Behring ; 
On the drifted snow, too plain, 
Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, 
Just beside the deep inden- 
Tation of his Number 10. 

Leaning on his icy hammer 
Stands the hero of this drama. 
And above the wild-duck's clamor^ 
In his own peculiar grammar. 
With its linguistic disguises, 
Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : 
*' Wall, I reckon 't ain't so bad, 
Seein' ez 't was all they had. 



42 NATIONAL 

True, the Springs are rather late, 

And early Falls predominate ; 

But the ice-crop 's pretty sure, 

And the air is kind o' pure ; 

'T ainH so very mean a trade, 

When the land is all surveyed. 

There 's a right smart chance for fur-chase 

All along this recent purchase. 

And, unless the stories fail, 

Every fish from cod to whale ; 

Rocks, too ; mebhe quartz ; let 's see, — 

'T would be strange if there should be, — 

Seems I 've heerd such stories told ; 

Eh ! — why, bless us, — yes, it 's gold ! " 

While the blows are falling thick 
Erom his California pick, 
You may recognize the Thor 
Of the vision that I saw, ~ 
Ereed from legendary glamour, 
See the real magician's hammer. 



ST. THOMAS 

(a geographical survey, 1868) 

Vert fair and full of promise 
Lay the island of St, Thomas : 
Ocean o'er its reefs and bars 
Hid its elemental scars ; 
Groves of cocoanut and guava 
Grew above its fields of lava. 
So the gem of the Antilles — 
" Isles of Eden/' where no ill is — 
Like a great green turtle slumbered 
On the sea that it encumbered. 

Then said William Henry Seward, 
As he cast his eye to leeward, 
** Quite important to our commerce 
Is this island of St. Thomas." 

Said the Mountain ranges, " Thank'ee, 
But we cannot stand the Yankee 
O'er our scars and fissures poring, 
In our very vitals boring, 
In our sacred caverns prying, 
- All our secret problems trying, — 
Digging, blasting, with dynamit 
Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! 
Other lands may be more civil ; 
Bust our lava crust if we will ! " 

Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing 
Through its coral-reef lips flashing, 



44 NATIONAL 

" Shall I let this scheming mortal 
Shut with stone my shining portal, 
Curb my tide and check my play, 
Eence with wharves my shining bay ? 
E-ather let me be drawn out 
In one awful waterspout ! " 

Said the black-browed Hurricane, 
Brooding down the Spanish Main, 
'^' Shall I see my forces, zounds ! 
Measured by square inch and pound^ 
With detectives at my back 
When I double on my track, 
And my secret paths made clear, 
Published o'er the hemisphere 
To each gaping, prying crew ? 
Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! " 

So the Mountains shook and thundered. 
And the Hurricane came sweeping. 
And the people stared and wondered 
As the Sea came on them leaping : 
Each, according to his promise, 
Made things lively at St. Thomas. 

Till one morn, when Mr. Seward 
Cast his weather eye to leeward. 
There was not an inch of dry land 
Left to mark his recent island. 
Not a flagstaff or a sentry. 
Not a wharf or port of entry, — 
Only — to cut matters shorter — 
Just a patch of muddy water 
In the open ocean lying. 
And a gull above it flying. 



OFF SCARBOEOUGH 

(SEPTEMBER, 1779) 



" Have a care ! " the bailiffs cried 
From their cockleshell that lay 
Off the frigate's yellow side, 
Tossing on Scarborough Bay, 
While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched 
away. 
" Take your chicks beneath your wings. 
And your claws and feathers spread. 
Ere the hawk upon them springs, — 
Ere around Flamborough Head 
Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and 
talons red." 

II 

How we laughed ! — my mate and I, — 

On the " Bon Homme Richard's " deck, 
As we saw that convoy fly 

Like a snow-squall, till each fleck 
Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by 
speck ; 
And scuffling back to shore 

The Scarborough bailiffs sped, 
As the " Richard," with a roar 
Of her cannon round the Head, 
Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: 
" Chase ahead ! " 



46 NATIONAL 

III 

But the devil seize Landais 

In that consort ship of France ! 
For the shabby, lubber way 

That he worked the " Alliance" 
In the offing, — nor a broadside fired save to our mis- 
chance ! — 
When tumbling to the van, 

With his battle-lanterns set, 
Rose the burly Englishman 

'Gainst our hull as black as jet, — 
Rode the yellow-sided ^' Serapis," and all alone we met ! 

IV 

All alone, though far at sea 

Hung his consort, rounding to ; 
All alone, though on our lee 

Fought our " Pallas,' ' stanch and true ! 
For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew ; 
And, like champions in a ring. 

There was cleared a little space — 
Scarce a cable's length to swing — 
Ere we grappled in embrace. 
All the world shut out around us, and we only face to 
face! 

V 

Then awoke all hell below 

From that broadside, doubly curst, 
For our long eighteens in row 

Leaped the first discharge and burst ! 
And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns 
the worst. 
And as dumb we lay, till, through 
Smoke and flame and bitter cry, 



OFF SCARBOROUGH 47 

Hailed the " Serapis : " " Have you 
Struck your colors ? " Our reply, 
*^ We have not yet begun to fight ! " went shouting to tha 
sky! 

VI 

Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay 

Like a herring gasping here ; 
Bunker of Nantucket Bay, 

Blown from out the port, dropped sheer 
Half a cable's length to leeward ; yet we faintly raised a 
cheer 
As with his own right hand 

Our Commodore made fast 
The foeman's head-gear and 
The " Bichard's " mizzen-mast. 
And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first tc 
last! 

VII 

Yet the foeman, gun on gun, 

Through the ^' Richard " tore a road, 
With his gunners' rammers run 
Through our ports at every load. 
Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers 
showed. 
Yet with entrails torn we clung 
Like the Spartan to our fox, 
And on deck no coward tongue 
Wailed the enemy's hard knocks. 
Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. 

VIII 

Then a thought rose in my brain. 
As through Channel mists the sun. 

From our tops a firp like rain 
Drove below decks every one 
Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a guns 



48 NATIONAL 

And that thought took shape as I 

On the " E/ichard's " yard lay out, 
That a man might do and die, 
If the doing hrought ahout 
Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates* 
cheering shout ! 

IX 

Then I crept out in the dark 

Till I hung above the hatch i 

Of the " Serapis," — a mark 

For her marksmen ! — with a match 
And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to 
snatch 
One last look at sea and sky ! 

At the lighthouse on the hill ! 
At the harvest-moon on high ! 
And our pine flag fluttering still ! 
Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that 
devil's pill ! 

X 

Then a blank was all between 

As the flames around me spun ! 
Had I fired the magazine ? 
Was the victory lost or won ? 
Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was 
done : 
For I lay among the dead 

In the cockpit of our foe. 
With a roar above my head, — 
Till a trampling to and fro. 
And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what 
now you know ! 



CADET GREY 
CANTO I 

I 

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind 
Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave ; 

Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind 
Of common man to compass or to crave ; 

Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined 
The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed 

By text and title, it drew back resigned, 
Nor cared with levity to vex a shade 
That to itself such perfect concord made. 

II 

Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain 
Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, 

As on the threshold of this chaste domain 

He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth 

To darkened canvases that frowned amain. 
With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began 

To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, 
Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, 
Their century fruit, — the perfect Boston man. 

Ill 

Somewhere within that Kussia-scented gloom 
A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear : 
" Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room ! 
Regard yon portraits ! Read their meaning clear I 



50 NATIONAL 

These much proclaim my station. I presume 
You are our Congressman, before whose wit 

And sober judgment shall the youth appear 

Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit 
To serve his cour^^y and to honor it. 

rv 

' Such is my son ! Elsewhere perhaps *t were wise 

Trial competitive should guide your choice. 
There are some people I can well surmise 

Themselves must show their merits. History's voice 
Spares me that trouble : all desert that lies 

In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, 
Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's, — 

Reverts to him ; entailed, as one might say ; 

In brief, result in Wmthrop Adams Grey ! " 

V 

He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, 
On the cropped head of one who stood beside. 

Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child 

Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride; 

'T was but a Mind that somehow had beguiled 
From soulless Matter processes that served 

For speech and motion and digestion mild, 
Content if all one moral purpose nerved. 
Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved. 

He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight 
He had despoiled the classics ; much he knew 

Of Sanskrit ; not that he placed undue weight 
On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, 

His favorite tongue. He learned, alas ! too late, 
One can't begin too early, — would regret 



CADET GEEY 51 

That boyish whim to ascertain the state 
Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget 
That philologic goal on which his soul was set. 

VII 

He too had traveled ; at the age of ten 

Found Paris empty, dull except for art 
And accent. " Mabille " with its glories then 

Less than Egyptian " Almees " touched a heart 
Nothing if not pure classic. If some men 

Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, 
But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, 

The better to instruct them, through some sheet 

Published in Boston, and signed " Beacon Street,^ 

VIII 

From premises so plain the blind could see 
But one deduction, and it came next day. 
*In times like these, the very name of G. 
Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J. 

Inclosed please find appointment.'' Presently 
Came a reception to which Harvard lent 

Fourteen professors, and, to give esjyrit, 

The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, 
Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. 

IX 

/our poets came who loved each other's song. 
And two philosophers, who thought that they 

vVere in most things impractical and wrong ; 
And two reformers, each in his own way 

Peculiar, — one who had waxed strong 

On herbs and water, and such simple fare ; 

Two foreign lions, " Kam See " and " Chy Long,'* 
And several artists claimed attention there, 
Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. 



§? NATIONAI, 

X 

With this indorsement nothing now remained 
But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux ; 

No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, 

And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. 

A slight publicity, such as obtained 

In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. 

The day arrived, the train and depot gained, 

The mayor's own presence this last act commendea , 
The train moved off, and here the first act ended. 



CANTO II 

I 

Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield 
Turns the whole river eastward through the pass ; 

Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed 
Like bossv bucklers of Leonidas ; 

Where buttressed low against the storms that wield 
Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarnij, 

By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled 
Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm 
Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. 

II 

But not to-night. The air and woods are still, 
The faintest rustle in the trees below, 

The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, 
Come to the ear as but the trailing flow 

Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill ; 
The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, 

The moon low sailing where the waters fill 
The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm. 
Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. 



CADET GREY 53 

III 

All space breathes languor: from the hilltQp high, 
Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, 

To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie 

And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast ; 

Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die 
On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream ; 

Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, 
Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam 
Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. 

IV 

Soft down the line of darkened battlements, 
Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, 

Where the low arching sallyport indents, 

Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. 

All is repose save where the camping tents 

Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound 

No morning guns for reveille, nor whence 

No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found 
Waiting and present on each sentry's round. 



Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, 
Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame. 

Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave ; 
Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, 

Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave. 

Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, 

Taught to destroy, that they may live to save. 
Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, 
Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. 

VI 

Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed 
From the grim discipline they learn to love ; 



54 NATIONAL 

In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, 

In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove ; 
One treads once more the piny paths that lead 

To his green mountain home, and pausing hears 
The cattle call ; one treads the tangled weed 

Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers ; 

One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. 

VII 

One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine 

The pillared porches of his Southern home ; 
One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine 

Of Western woods where he was wont to roam ; 
One sees the sunset fire the distant line 

Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down ; 
One treads the snow-peaks ; one by lamps that shine 

Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town ; 

And two are missing, — Cadets Grey and Brown ! 

^ vin 
Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, 

That selfsame truant known as " Cadet Grey " 
Was the young hero of our moral tract, 

Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. 
" Winthrop " and " Adams " dropped in that one act 
Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned 
Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact 

Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, 
Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was 
" skinned.'' 

IX 

He had known trials since we saw him last. 
By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, 

Not for his learning, but that it was cast 

In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection ; 



CADET GREY 53 

But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast 
Of information flooded each professor, 

They quite forgot his eyeglass, — something past 
All precedent, — accepting the transgressor, ' 

Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. 



E'en the first day he touched a hlackboard's space — 
So the tradition of his glory lingers — 

Two wise professors fainted, each with face 
White as the chalk within his rapid fingers : 

All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, 
His form was hid in chalk precipitation 

Of every problem, till they said his case 
Could meet from them no fair examinatiop 
Till Congress made a new appropriation. 

XI 

Famous in molecules, he demonstrated 

From the mess hash to many a listening classful ; 
Great as a botanist, he separated 

Three kinds of " Mentha '' in one julep's glassful ; 
High in astronomy, it has been stated 

He was the first at West Point to discover 
Mars' missing satellites, and calculated 

Their true positions, not the heavens over. 

But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Eovei-. 

XII 

Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial 
That very night was visible and clear ; 

At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, 
And clad in uniform, were loitering near 

A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal 
Took their impatience somewhat patiently, 



56 NATIONAL 

Knowing the youths were somewhat green and 

" bestial '' — 
(A certain slang of the Academy, 
I beg the reader won't refer to me). 

XIII 

For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty 
Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, 

But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, 

Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame ; 

Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty 
She gave her soul poetical expression, 

And being clever too, as she was pretty. 

From her high casement warbled this confession, — 
Half provocation and one half repression : — 



NOT YET 

Not yet, friend, not yet ! the patient stars 
Lean from their lattices, content to wait. 
All is illusion till the morning bars 
Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. 
Night is too young, friend ! day is too near ; 
Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. 
Not yet, friend, not yet ! 

Not yet, love, not yet ! all is not true. 
All is not ever as it seemeth now. 
Soon shall the river take another blue. 
Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. 
What lieth dark, love, bright day will fill ; 
Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. 
Not yet, love, not yet ! 



XIV 

The strain was finished ; softly as the night 
Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then 



CADET GREY 57 

Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white ; 

But that no doubt was accident, for when 
She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite 

Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter, — 
Washing her hands of either gallant wight, 

Knowing the moralist might compliment her, — 

Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. 

XV 

She little knew the youths below, who straight 
Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked 

The pregnant moral she would inculcate ; 

Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked 

Her right to doubt his souPs maturer state. 

Brown — who was Western, amiable, and new — 

Might take the moral and accept his fate ; 
The which he did, but, being stronger too, 
Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. 

XVI 

They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer 
To those who knew not how their friendship blended * 

Each was opposed, and each the other's peer. 
Yet each the other in some things transcended. 

Where Brown lacked culture, brains, — • and oft, I fear, 
Cash in his pocket, — Grey of course supplied him ; 

Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, 
Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, 
But in his faults stood manfully beside him. 

XVII 

In academic walks and studies grave, 

In the camp drill and martial occupation, 

They helped ^each other ; but just here I crave 
Space for the reader's full imagination, — 



58 NATIONAL 

The fact is patent, Grey became a slave ! 

A tool, a fag, a " pleb " ! To state it plainer, 

All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave 

Cleaned guns, brought water 1 — was, in fact, retainer 
To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer ! 

XVIII 

How they bore this at home I cannot say : 

I only know so runs the gossip's tale. 
It chanced one day that the paternal Grey 

Came to West Point that he himself might hail 
The future hero in some proper way 

Consistent with his lineage. With him came 
A judge, a poet, and a brave array 

Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, 

Eyeglass and respirator with the same. 

XIX 

* Observe ! " quoth Grey the elder to his friends, 

" Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing 
You '11 notice Winthrop Adams ! Greater ends 

Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt straying 
AVith Caesar's Commentaries, he attends 

Some Boman council. Let us ask, however, 
Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends 

By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor 

To find — What ! heaven ! Winthrop ! Oh I no ! 
never 1 " 

XX 

Alas ! too true ! The last of all the Greys 
Was " doing police detail," — it had come 

To this ; in vain the rare historic bays 

That crowned the pictured Puritans at home ) 

And yet 't was certain that in grosser ways 



CADET GREY 59 

Of health and physique he was quite improving. 
Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise 
In other exercise, much more behooving 
A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. 

XXI 

But to resume : we left the youthful pair, 
Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower ; 

'T is to be hoped they were no longer there, 
For stars were pointing to the morning hour. 

Their escapade discovered, ill 't would fare 
With our two heroes, derelict of orders ; 

But, like the ghost, they " scent the morning air," 
And back again they steal across the borders, 
Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. 

XXII 

They got to bed with speed : young Grey to dream 
Of some vague future with a general's star, 

And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam ; 
While Brown, content to worship her afar, 

Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, 
Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, 

Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, 
In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, 
Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. 

XXIII 

So passed three years of their novitiate, 

The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. 

His youth ran clear, — not choked like his Cochituate, 
In civic pipes, but free and pure alone ; 

Yet knew repression, could himself habituate 
To having mind and body well rubbed down. 

Could read himself in others, and could situate 



60 NATIONAL 

Themselves in him, — except, I grieve to own, 
He could n't see what Kitty saw in Brown ! 

XXIV 

At last came graduation ; Brown received 
In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission ; 

Then frolic, flirting, parting, — when none grieved 
Save Brown, who loved our young Academician, 

And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived 
By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties 

Graced the occasion, and it was believed 

Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his 
Promised command, she 'd share with him those duties 

XXV 

Howe'er this was I know not ; all I know. 

The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear ; 
* 'T was such a night as this," three years ago. 
Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. 

There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, 
Too wide for one, not wide enough for three 

(A fact precluding any plural beau), 

Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, 
But not why Grey that favored one should be. 

XXVI 

There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide 
Somewhere within the shadows of that path 

Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide, — 
Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath 

No fairer mirror for a might-be bride 

Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle 

To its dark heart one moment. At her side 

Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well. 
Bright, spherical — a tear ? Ah no 1 a button fell ! 



CADET GREY 61 

XXVII 
" Material minds might think that gravitation," 

Quoth Grey, " drew yon metallic spheroid down. 
The soul poetic views the situation 

Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown 
Was mirrored there, there was disintegration 

Of me, and all my spirit moved to you. 
Taking the form of slow precipitation ! " 

But here came " Taps,'' a start, a smile, adieu ! 

A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. 

BUGLE SONG 

Fades the light, 

And afar 
Goeth day, cometh night; 
And a star . 
Leadeth all, 
Speedeth all 

To their rest ! 

Love, good-night t 
Must thou go 
When the day 
And the light 

Need thee so, -^ 
Needeth all, 
Heedeth all. 

That is lest f 



CANTO m 

I 

Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, 
Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, 

Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie. 

Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain | 

Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye 



62 NATIONAL 

But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based 
On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, 
As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, 
But ever day by day against the sunset traced : 

II • 

There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings 
With dust of alkali the trampling band ' 

Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings 
The red marauders of the Western land ; 

Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings 
Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank 

Where lie their lodges ; and the river sings 
Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank 
Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. 

Ill 

They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, 
The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier, 

The scum of camps, the implements of toil 

Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here ; 

All they could rake or glean from hut or soil 

Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed 

For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil 
To all this tinsel that one feathered reed 
Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed ! 

IV 

They brought with them, alas ! a wounded foe, 
Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, 

Lest that in death he might escape one throe 
They had decreed his living flesh should bear : 

A youthful officer, by one foul blow 

Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still 

Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow 



CADET GREY 68 

Above him ; hopeless, yet content to spill 
His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kilL 

V 

He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell 

Had won the awe of those rude border men 
Who gathered round him, and beside him fell 

In loyal faith and silence, save that when 
By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, 

He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide 
Its nearer focus, there arose a yell 

Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, 

*^ Wade in, Dundreary ! " tossed his cap and — died. 

VI 

Their sole survivor now ! his captors bear 
Him all unconscious, and beside the stream 

Leave him to rest ; meantime the squaws prepare 
The stake for sacrifice : nor wakes a gleam 

Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare 
Expectant of the torture ; yet alway 

His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there 
With peace they know not, till at close of day 
On his dull ear there thrills a whispered " Grey ! ^' 

VIT 

He starts ! Was it a trick ? Had angels kind 

Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast ? 
Such things he 'd read of ! Faintly to his mind 

Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. 
But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined 

To baritone ! A squaw in ragged gown 
Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind ? 

Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown ? 

The frown was painted, but that wink tneant — " 
Brown ! 



64 NATIONAL 

VIII 
*' Hush ! for your life and mine ! the thongs are cut/' 
He whispers ; " in yon thicket stands my horse. 
One dash ! — I follow close, as if to ghit 

My own revenge, yet har the others' course. 
Now ! " And 't is done. Grey speeds, Brown follows ; 

but 
Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, 
Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut 
His in, uplifting him ! Anon he feels 
A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling 
heels. 

IX 

Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang 

Headlong the savages in swift pursuit ; 
Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang 

Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. 
Long is the chase ; Brown hears with inward pang 

The short, hard panting of his gallant steed 
Beneath its double burden ; vainly rang 

Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed,. 

Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed ! 

X 

Brown saw it — reined his steed ; dismounting, stood 

Calm and inflexible. " Old chap ! you see 
There is but one escape. You know it ? Good ! 

There is one man to take it. You are he. 
The horse won't carry double. If he could, 

'T would but protract this bother. I shall stay : 
T Ve business with these devils, they with me ; 

I will occupy them till you get away. 

Hush I quick time, forward. There ! God bless yoo* 
Grey ! '' 



CADET GREY 65 

XI 
But as he finished, Grey slipped to hib feet, 

Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye : 
-'^ You do forget yourself when you compete 

With him whose riffht it is to stay and die : 
That 's not your duty. Please regain your seat ; 

And take my orders — since I rank you here ! — 
Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat 

Report at quarters. Take this letter ; ne'er 

Give it to aught but her, nor let aught interfere." 

XII 

And, shamed and blushing. Brown the letter took 

Obediently and placed it in his pocket ; 
Then, drawing forth another, said, " I look 

For death as you do, wherefore take this locket 
And letter. '^ Here his comrade's hand he shook 

In silence. '^ Should we both together fall, 
Some other man " — but here all speech forsook 

His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all 

He heard afar his own dear bugle-call ! 

XIII 

'T was his command and succor, but e'en then 

Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot 
He likewise had been wounded, and both men 

Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. 
l^jong lay they in extremity, and when 

They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged 
Old vows and memories, one common ^' den " 

In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, 

Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. 

XIV 

And yet 't was strange — nor can I end my tale 
Without this moral, to be fair and just : 



66 NATIONAL 

They never sought to know why each did fail 
The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust. 

It was suggested they could not avail 

Themselves of either letter, since they were 

Duly dispatched to their address by mail 
By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair 
Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank 
Square, 



II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

THE MIEACLE OF PADEE JUNIPEEO 

This is the tale that the Chronicle 
Tells of the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, 
The very reverend Junipero. 

The heathen stood on his ancient mound, 

Looking over the desert bound 

Into the distant, hazy South, 

Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

Where, with many a gaping mouth 

And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, 

For seven months had the wasted plain 

Known no moisture of dew or rain. 

The wells were empty and choked with sand | 

The rivers had perished from the land ; 

Only the sea-fogs to and fro 

Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. 

Deep in its bed lay the river's bones, 

Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, 

And tracked o'er the desert faint and far, 

Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. 

Thus they stood as the sun went down 
Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; 
Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom 
The pale-face medicine-man should come, 
Not in anger or in strife, 



68 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

But to bring — so ran the tale — 
The welcome springs of eternal life, 
The living waters that should not fail. 

Said one, " He will come like Manitou- 
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew.*'^ 
Said another, " He will come full soon 
Out of the round-faced watery moon/' 
And another said, '' He is here ! " and lo, 
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, 
Out from the desert's blinding heat 
The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet. 

They stood and gazed for a little space 
Down on his pallid and careworn face, 
And a smile of scorn went round the band 
As they touched alternate with foot and han(| 
This mortal waif, that the outer space 
Of dim mysterious sky and sand 
Flung with so little of Christian grace 
Down on their barren, sterile strand. 

Said one to him : " It seems thy God 
Is a very pitiful kind of God : 
He could not shield, thine aching eyes 
From the blowing desert sands that rise, 
Nor turn aside from thy old gray head 
The glittering blade that is brandished 
By the sun He set in the heavens high ; 
He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; 
The desert fire is in thy brain ; 
Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain * 
If this be the grace He showeth thee 
Who art His servant, what may we. 
Strange to His ways and His commands;^ 
Seek at His unforgiving hands ? " 



THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO 69 

" Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight, 
** And thou shalt know whose mercy bore 

These aching limbs to your heathen door, 

And purged my soul of its gross estate. 

Drink in His name, and thou shalt see 

The hidden depths of this mystery. 

Drink ! " and he held the cup. One blow 

From the heathen dashed to the ground below 

The sacred cup that the Padre bore, 

And the thirsty soil drank the precious store 

Of sacramental and holy wine, 

That emblem and consecrated sign 

And blessed symbol of blood divine. 

Then, says the legend (and they who doubt 

The same as heretics be accurst), 

From the dry and feverish soil leaped out 

A living fountain ; a well-spring burst 

Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

Over the sandy and sterile plain. 

Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones 

That lay in the valley — the scattered bones — « 

Moved in the river and lived again ! 

Such was the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the cup of wine that fell 
From the hands of the pious Padre Seno^ 
The very reverend Junipero. 



THE WONDEEFUL SPEING OF SAN JOAQUIN 

Of all the fountains that poets sing, — 

Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, 

Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth, 

Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth, — 

In short, of all the springs of Time 

That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, 

That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, 

There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. 

Anno Domini eighteen-seven, 

Father Dominguez (now in heaven, — 

Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) 

Found the spring, and found it, too. 

By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe ; 

For his beast — a descendant of Balaam's ass •^— 

Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. 

The Padre thought the omen good, 

And bent his lips to the trickling flood; 

Then — as the Chronicles declare, 

On the honest faith of a true believer — 

His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare^ 

Filled like a withered russet pear 

In the vacuum of a glass receiver. 

And the snows that seventy winters bring 

Melted away in that magic spring. 

Such, at least, was the wondrous news 
The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. 



THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 71 

The Church, of course, had its own views 
Of who were worthiest to use 
The magic spring ; but the prior claim 
Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. 
Far and wide the people came : 
Some from the healthful Aptos Creek 
Hastened to bring their helpless sick .* 
Even the fishers of rude Soquel 
Suddenly found they were far from well ; 
The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo 
Said, in fact, they had never been so ; 
And all were ailing, — strange to say, — 
From Pescadero to Monterey. 

Over the mountain they poured in, 
With leathern bottles and bags of skia 
Through the canons a motley throng 
Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. 
The Fathers gazed at the moving scene 
With pious joy and with souls serene ; 
And then — a result perhaps foreseen — 
They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin, 

Not in the eyes of faith alone 

The good effects of the water shone ; 

But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, 

Of rough vaquero and muleteer ; 

Angular forms were rounded out, 

Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout 5 

And as for the girls, — for miles about 

They had no equal ! To this day. 

From Pescadero to Monterey, 

You *11 still find eyes in which are seen 

The liquid graces of San Joaquiiu 



T2 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

There is a limit to human bliss, 

And the Mission of San Joaquin had this 5 

None went abroad to roam or stay 

But they fell sick in the queerest way, — 

A singular Tnaladie du pays. 

With gastric symptoms : so they spent 

Their days in a sensuous content, 

Caring little for things unseen 

Beyond their bowers of living green. 

Beyond the mountains that lay between 

The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. 

"Winter passed, and the summer came ; 
The trunks of madrono, all aflame, 
Here and there through the underwood 
Like pillars of fire starkly stood. 
All of the breezy solitude 

Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay 
And resinous odors mixed and blended ; 

And dim and ghostlike, far away. 
The smoke of the burning woods ascended. 
Then of a sudden the mountains swam. 
The rivers piled their floods in a dam. 
The ridge above Los Gatos Creek 

Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; 
The forests waltzed till they grew sick. 

And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; 
And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, 
The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin 
Vanished, and never more was seen ! 

Two days passed : the Mission folk 

Out of their rosy dream awoke ; 

Some of them looked a trifle white. 

But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. 



THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 73 

Three days : there was sore distress, 
Headache, nausea, giddiness. 
Four days : faintings, tenderness 
Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less 
Than one week — here the story closes ; 
We won't continue the prognosis — 
Enough that now no trace is seen 
Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. 

MORAL 

You see the point ? Don't be too quick 
To break bad habits : better stick, 
Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. 



THE ANGELUS 

(hEABD at the mission DOLORES, 1868) 

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 
Still fills the wide expanse, 

Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 
With color of romance ! 

I hear your call, and see the sun descending 
On rock and wave and sand, 

As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, 
Girdle the heathen land. 

Within the circle of your incantation 
No blight nor mildew falls ; 

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition 
Passes those airy walls. 

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, 

I touch the farther Past ; 
I see the dying glow of Spanish glory. 

The sunset dream and last ! 

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, 

The white Presidio ; 
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, 

The priest in stole of snow. 

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting 
Above the setting sun ; 



THE ANGELUS 75 

And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting^ 
The freighted galleon. 

O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses 

Recall the faith of old ; 
O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music 

The spiritual fold ! 

Your voices break and falter in the darkness, — 

Break, falter, and are still ; 
And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, 

The sun sinks from the hill ! 



CONCEPCION DE AEGUELLO 

(presidio DE SAN FRANCISCO, I8OO) 

I 

Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, 

old and quaint, 
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, — 

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, 
On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angePs golden 
reed ; 

All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed 

away ; 
And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. 

Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering 

eye, 
Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; 

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of 

gold 
With the plain and homespun present, and a love that 

ne'er grows old ; 

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner 

dust, — 
Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. 



CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 77 

II 

Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, 
Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
are. 

He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene 

debate 
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; 

He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk 

apart 
With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the 

heart, 

Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, 
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; 

Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 

are. 
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar j 

Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, 
And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles 
flew. 

Ill 

Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 

are, 
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of 

the Czar ; 

Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty 

breeze, — 
Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling 



78 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty 

leather cloaks, — 
Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing 

plain of oaks ; 

Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce south- 
wester tost. 

Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished 
and were lost. 

So each year the seasons shifted, — wet and warm and 

drear and dry ; 
Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and 

sky. 

Still it brought no ship nor message, — brought no tidings, 

ill or meet. 
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair 

and sweet. 

Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears 

beside : 
" He will come," the flowers whispered ; " Come no more," 

the dry hills sighed. 

Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning 
breeze, — 

Still she lost him with the folding of the great white- 
tented seas ; 

Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive 

brown. 
And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet 

lashes down ; 



CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 79 

Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied 

caress 
And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine 

distress. 

Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon 

are, 
Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from 

afar ; 

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each 
As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his 
speech : 

" ' Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as 

he;' 
' Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree j ' 

*' ^ He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall 

have flies ; ' 
* In the end God grinds the miller ; ' * In the dark the 

mole has eyes ; ' 

" ' He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,' — 
And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- 
duct clear," 

Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it 

would teach 
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; 

And on "Concha," " Conchitita," an^ "Conchita" he 

would dwell 
With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so 

well. 



80 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in 

doubt, 
Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and 

went out. 

IV 

Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- 
cade. 
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; 

Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport, 
Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. 

Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind, 
Bose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth 
too kind ; 

Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and 

fleet. 
Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their 

mustang's feet ; 

So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay scrapes 

blazed, — 
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying 

hoofs had raised. 

Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, 

with patient mien. 
The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull 

routine, — 

Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone. 
Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary mono- 
tone. 



CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 81 

V 

Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle 

breeze, 
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; 

Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure 

decay, 
And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; 

And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, 
All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and 
guest. 

Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set. 
And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; 

Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and 
wine. 

Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — heedless of the warn- 
ing sign. 

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : " Speak no ill of 

him, I pray ! 
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this 

day,— 

"Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- 
tious horse. 

Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, 
of course ! 

" Lives she yet ? " A deathlike silence fell on banquet, 

guests, and hall, 
And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of 

all. 



82 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the 

nun's white hood ; 
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken 

where it stood. 

** Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. All were hushed 

as Concha drew 
Closer yet her nun's attire. " Senor, pardon, sh* died, 
too!" 



-FOR THE KING^' 

(northern MEXICO, 1640) 

As you look from the plaza at Leon west 

You can see her house, but the view is best 

From the porch of the church where she lies at rest ; 

Where much of her past still lives, I think, 
In the scowling brows and sidelong blink 
Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink 

To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, 
Lean out from their niches, rank on rank, 
With a bloodless Saviour on either flank j 

In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin 
To show the adobe core within, — 
A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. 

And I think that the moral of all, you '11 say^ 
Is the sculptured legend that moulds away 
On a tomb in the choir : " For el Eey." 

" For el Rey ! " Well, the king is gone 
Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one 
Shot — but the Rock of the Church lives on. 

*' Por el Rey ! " What matters, indeed, 
If king or president succeed 
To a country haggard with sloth and greed, 



84 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

As long as one granary is fat, 

And yonder priest, in a shovel hat. 

Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? 

What matters ? Naught, if it serves to bring 
The legend nearer, — no other thing. — 
We'll spare the moral, " Live tlie king ! " 

Two hundred years ago, they say, 
The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, 
Bode with his retinue that way : 

Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee ; 
Grave, as the substitute should be 
Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; 

Yet, from his black plume's curving grace 
To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space, 
Exquisite as a piece of lace ! 

Two hundred years ago — e'en so — 

The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, 

While Leon's seneschal bent him low. 

And begged that the Marquis would that night take 
His humble roof for the royal sake. 
And then, as the custom demanded, spake 

. The usual wish, that his guest would hold 
The house, and all that it might enfold. 
As his — with the bride scarce three days old. 

Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, 
Keplied to all with the measured grace 
Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; 



"FOR THE king" 85 

Nor raised his head till his black plume swept 
The hem of the lady's robe, who kept 
Her place, as her husband backward stept. 

And then (I know not how nor why) 
A subtle flame in the lady's eye — 
Unseen by the courtiers standing by — 

Burned through his lace and titled wreath, 
Burned through his body's jeweled sheath, 
Till it touched the steel of the man beneath? 

(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant 
Than to point a well-worn compliment. 
And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.) 

Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : 
•** Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, 
But best whose law is love made plain." 

Be sure that night no pillow prest 
The seneschal, but with the rest 
Watched, as was due a royal guest, — 

Watched from the wall till he saw the square 
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, — 
Watched till he saw two shadows fare 

Out from his garden, where the shade 
That the old church toWer and belfry made 
Like a benedictory hand was laid. 

Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned 

To his nearest sentry : " These monks have learned 

That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. 



86 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

^* Myself shall punish yon acolyte 
Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; 
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light." 

Yet not till the sun was riding high 
Did the sentry meet his commander's eye, 
Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. 

To the lovers of grave formalities 

No greeting was ever so fine, I wis. 

As this host's and guest's high courtesies ! 

The seneschal feared, as the wind was west^ 
A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; 
The Viceroy languidly confest 

That cares of state, and — he dared to say — • 
Some fears that the King could not repay 
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way 

Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much 
None shared his wakefulness ; though such 
Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch 

A theme so fine — the bride, perchance. 
Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance 
To give this greeting countenance. 

Be sure that the seneschal, in turn. 

Was deeply bowed with the grave concern 

Of the painful news his guest should learn "i 

^ Last night, to her father's dying bed 
By a priest was the lady summoned ; 
Nor know we yet how well she sped, 



"FOR THE KING" 87 

" But hope for the best/' The grave Viceroy 
(Though grieved his visit had such alloy) 
Must still wish the seneschal great joy 

Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! 
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must 
To horse, if they 'd 'scape the noonday dust, 

"Nay," said the seneschal, "at least, 
To mend the news of this funeral priest, 
Myself shall ride as your escort east." 

The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside 
To his nearest follower : " With me ride — 
You and Felipe — on either side. 

*' And list ! Should anything me befall. 
Mischance of ambush or musket-ball. 
Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! 

" No more." Then gravely in accents clear 
Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; 
"Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer. 

Carelessly stroking his pommel top : 
" If from the saddle ye see me drop, 
B-iddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! " 

So these, with many a compliment, 
Each on his own dark thought intent, 
With grave politeness onward went, 

Eliding high, and in sight of all, 
Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, . 
Under the shade of the Almandral ; 



88 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Holding their secret hard and fast, 
Silent and grave they ride at last 
Into the dusty traveled Past. 

Even like this they passed away 
Two hundred years ago to-day. 
What of the lady ? Who shall say ? 

Do the souls of thje dying ever yearn 

To some favored spot for the dust's return, 

Tor the homely peace of the family urn ? 

I know not. Yet did the seneschal, 
Chancing in after-years to fall 
Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball, 

Call to his side a trusty friar, 

And bid him swear, as his last desire. 

To bear his corse to San Pedro's choii? 

At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure 
Should his mortal frame find sepulture : 
This much, for the pains Christ did endure. 

Be sure that the friar loyally 
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, 
Till the spires of Leon silently 

Rose through the green of the Almandral, 

As if to beckon the seneschal 

To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. 

I wot that the saints on either side 

Leaned from their niches open-eyed 

To see the doors of the church swing wide ; 



"FOR THE KING" 89 

That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank 
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank. 
Went by with the coffin, clank on clank. 

For why ? When they raised the marble doo- 
Of the tomb, untouched for years before, 
The friar swooned on the choir floor; 

For there, in her laces and festal dress, 
Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness 
Scarcely changed by her long duress, — 

As on the night she had passed away ; 

Only that near her a dagger lay. 

With the written legend, " Por el Rey." 

What was their greeting, the groom and bride, 
They whom that steel and the years divide ? 
I know not. Here they lie side by side. 

Side by side ! Though the king has his way, 
Even the dead at last have their day. 
Make you the moral. ^* Por el Rey I " 



RAMON 

(rEPUGIO mine, northern MEXICO) 

Drunk and senseless in his place, 

Prone and sprawling on his face, 
More like brute than any man 
Alive or dead, 

By his great pump out of gear. 

Lay the peon engineer, 

Waking only just to hear, 
Overhead, 

Angry tones that called his name, 

Oaths and cries of bitter blame, — 
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled ' 

" To the man who ^11 bring to me," 
Cried Intendant Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 
" Bring the sot alive or dead, 
I will give to him," he said, 
'* Fifteen hundred pesos down. 
Just to set the rascaFs crown 
Underneath this heel of mine : 
Since but death 
Deserves the man whose deed. 
Be it vice or want of heed. 
Stops the pumps that give us breath, — 
Stops the pumps that suck the death 
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " 



KAMON 91 

No one answered ; for a cry 
From the shaft rose up on high, 
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, 
Came the miners each, the bolder 
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, 
Grappling, clinging to their hold or 

Letting go, 
As the weaker gasped and fell 
From the ladder to the well, -^ 
To the poisoned pit of hell 

Down below ! 

" To the man who sets them free," 

Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 
" Brings them out and sets them free, 

I will give that man," said he, 
" Twice that sum, who with a rope 

Face to face with Death shall cope. 

Let him come who dares to hope ! " 
" Hold your peace ! " some one replied, 

Standing by the foreman's side ; 
-* There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! " 

Then they held their breath with awe, 

Pulling on the rope, and saw 

Fainting figures reappear. 

On the black rope swinging clear. 
Fastened by some skillful hand from below ; 

Till a score the level gained, 

And but one alone remained, — 

He the hero and the last, 

He whose skillful hand made fast 
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer I 



SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he 
At the feet of Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. 
" I have come,'* he gasped, " to claim 
Both rewards. Seiior, my name 

Is Eramon ! 
I 'm the drunken engineer, 
I 'm the coward, Senor " — Here 
He fell over, by that sign, 

Dead as stone I 



DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 

(refectory, mission SAN GABRIEL, 1869) 

Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still, 
" Don Giovanni," or what you will. 
The type 's eternal ! We knew him here 
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear 
The story 's no new one ! Will you hear ? 

One of those spirits you can't tell why 

God has permitted. Therein I 

Have the advantage, for / hold 

That wolves are sent to the purest fold, 

And we 'd save the wolf if we 'd get the lamb. 

You 're no believer ? Good ! I am. 

Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, 
The Don loved women, and they loved him. 
Each thought herself his last love ! Worst, 
Many believed that they were his first ! 
And, such are these creatures since the Fall, 
The very doubt had a charm for all ! 

You laugh ! You are young, but /— indeed 

I have no patience ... To proceed : — 

You saw, as you passed through the upper town^ 

The Eucinal where the road goes down 

To San Felipe ! There one morn 

They found Diego, — his mantle torn^ 



94 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

And as many holes through his doublet's band 

As there were wronged husbands — you understand I 

" Dying," so said the gossips. " Dead " 
Was what the friars who found him said. 
May be, Quien sahe ? Who else should know ? 
It was a hundred years ago. 
There was a funeral. Small indeed - — 
Private. What would you ? To proceed : — 

Scarcely the year had flown. One night 
The Commandante awoke in fright, 
Hearing below his casement's bar 
The well-known twang of the Don's guitar ; 
And rushed to the window, just to see 
His wife a-swoon on the balcony. 

One week later, Don Juan Ramirez 
Found his own daughter, the Doiia Inez, 
Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear 
The song of that phantom cavalier. 
Even Alcalde Pedro Bias 
Saw, it was said, through his niece's glassy 
The shade of Diego twice repass. 

What these gentlemen each confessed 
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best 
The case was a bad one. How to deal 
With Sin as a Ghost, they could n't but feel 
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray 
Humbly offered to show the way. 

And the way was this. Did I say before 
That the Fray was a stranger ? No, Senor ? 
Strange ! very strange ! I should have said 



DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 95 

That the very week that the Don lay dead 
He came among us. Bread he broke 
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. 
So he had vowed it ! Below his brows 
His face was hidden. There are such vows ! 

Strange ! are they not ? You do not use 
Snuff ? A bad habit ! 

Well, the views 
Of the Fray were these : that the penance done 
By the caballeros was right ; but one 
Was due from the cause, and that, in brief, 
Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief. 
And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, 
And Carmen, — well, half the girls in town 
On his tablets the Friar had written down. 

These were to come on a certain day 
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray 
For absolution. That done, small fear 
But the shade of Diego would disappear. 

They came ; each knelt in her turn and place 
To the pious Fray with his hidden face 
And voiceless lips, and each again 
Took back her soul freed from spot or stain, 
Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast 
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last. 

And then — perhaps that her voice was low 
From fear or from shame — the monks said so — * 
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all 
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall 
Fainting beside the confessional. 



^6 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

And so was the ghost of Diego laid 
As the Fray had said. Never more his shade 
Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh ! 
The girl interests you ? I dare say ! 
" Nothing," said she, when they brought her to -«= 
" Only a faintness ! " They spoke more true 
Who said ^t was a stubborn soul. But then •^-• 
Women are women, and men are men ! 

So, to return. As I said before. 

Having got the wolf, by the same high law 

We saved the lamb in the wolf 's own jaw, 

And that 's my moral. The tale, I fear, 

But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here 

Is stuff for a moral. What 's your view ? 

You smile, Don Pancho. Ah ! that 's like you J 



AT THE HACIENDA 

Know I not whom thou mayst be 
Carved upon this olive-tree, — 

" Manuela of La Torre," — 
For around on broken walls 
Summer sun and spring rain fallB| 
And in vain the low wind calls 

" Manuela of La Torre." 

Of that song no words remain 
But the musical refrain, — 
" Manuela of La Torre." 
Yet at night, when winds are still, 
Tinkles on the distant hill 
A guitar, and words that thrill 

Tell to me the old, old story, — 
Old when first thy charms were sung, 
Old when these old walls were youngji 
" Manuela of La Torre." 



FBIAR PEDRO^S RIDB 

It was the morning season of the year ; 

It was the morning era of the land ; 
The watercourses rang full loud and clear ; 

Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand 
Had planted it when Faith was taught hy Fear, 

When monks and missions held the sole command 
Of all that shore heside the peaceful sea, 
"Where spring-tides heat their long-drawn reveille. 

Out of the mission of San Luis Bey, 

All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, 

Bode Friar Pedro, in a pious way. 

With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, 

Each armed alike for either prayer or fray ; 

Handcuffs and missals they had slung together. 

And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter 

Each swung a lasso — alias a " riata." 

In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack. 
The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; 

Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back 
To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; 

And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! 
To Latin matins and their souls' salvation. 

And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary 

Than Father Pedro's droning miserere. 

To bring them back to matins and to prime, 
To pious works and secular submission. 



FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 99 

To prove to them that liberty was crime, — 
This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission ; 

To get new souls perchance at the same time, 

And bring them to a " sense of their condition," — » 

That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, 

Means making that condition most unpleasant. 

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
He saw the gopher working in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : — =» 
He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough 

And deep conviction of God's goodness ; still 
He failed to see that in His glory He 
Yet left the humblest of His creatures free. 

He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note 

Voiced the monotony of land and sky. 
Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat 

His priestly presence as he trotted by. 
He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, 

But other game just then was in his eye, — 
A savage camp, whose occupants preferred 
Their heathen darkness to the living Word. 

He rang his bell, and at the martial sound 

Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed ? 

Six horses sprang across the level ground 
As six dragoons in open order dashed ; 

Above their heads the lassos circled round, 
In every eye a pious fervor flashed ; 

They charged the camp, and in one moment more 

They lassoed six and reconverted four. 

The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, 

And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men t 



100 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

" Well thrown, Bautista, — that 's another soul ; 

After him, Gomez, — try it once again ; 
This way, Felipe, — there the heathen stole ; 

Bones of St. Francis ! — surely that makes t6n$ 
Te Deum laudainus — hut they 're very wild ; 
Non Twhis Domine — all right, my child!'' 

"When at that moment — as the story goes— • 
A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, 

Ran past the Friar, just before his nose. 

He stared a moment, and in silence brooded \ 

Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose 

And every other prudent thought excluded ; 

He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter 

After that Occidental Atalanta. 

High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose ; 

But, as the practice was quite unfamiliajf, 
His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose, 

And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, 
And might have interfered with that brave youth's 

Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; 
But all things come by practice, and at last 
His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast. 

Then rose above the plain a mingled yell 
Pf rage and triumph, — a demoniac whoop : 

The Padre heard it like a passing knell, 

And would have loosened his unchristian loop; 

But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, 
And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; 

For with one bound the savage fled amain. 

Dragging horse. Friar, down the lonely plain. 

Down the curroyo, out across the mead. 

By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, 



FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 101 

Dragging behind her still the panting steed 
And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed 

To cut the lasso or to check his speed. 
He felt himself beyond all human aid, 

And trusted to the saints, — and, for that matter, 

To some weak spot in Felipe's riata. 

Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed, 

And, like baptism, held the flying wretch, — 

A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed, 

Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch, 

But would not break ; so neither could divest 
Themselves of it, but, like some awful /e^cA, 

The holy Friar had to recognize 

The image of his fate in heathen guise. 

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 
He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : — 
He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough 

The contrast was to his condition ; still 
The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night 
And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight. 

The morning came above the serried coast, 
Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires, 

Driving before it all the fleet-\\dnged host 
Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, 

Filling the land with light and joy, but most 
The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; 

In pearly tints and opal flame and fire 

The morning came, but not the holy Friar. 

Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought 
Some trace or token that might tell his story ; 



102 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught 
Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. 

In this surmise some miracles were wrought 
On his account, and souls in purgatory 

Were thought to profit from his intercession ; 

In brief, his absence made a " deep impression." 

A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more 
Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, 

Spread her bright dais by the western shore, 
And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision. 

The heathen converts thronged the chapel door 
At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, 

A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, 

And to their feet the congregation bounded. 

A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course. 

Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : 

A phantom Friar on a spectre horse. 

Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. 

By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force, 
They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail : 

And that was all, — enough to tell the story, 

And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. 

And ever after, on that fatal day 

That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, 

A ghostly couple came and went away 

With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, 

Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey, 
And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing ; 

For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar 

Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. 

The Mission is no more ; upon its walls 
The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause. 



FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE 103 

Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls 

Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze ; 

No more the bell its solemn warning calls, — 
A holier silence thrills and overawes ; 

And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day 

Outline the Mission of San Luis Key, 



IN THE MISSION GARDEN 

(1865) 
FATHER FELIPE 

1 speak not the English well, but Pachita, 
She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? 
Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger 
, Americano. 

Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is, 
There live the speech.'* Ah ! you not understand ? So ! 
Pardon an old man, — what ^ou call " old fogy," — 

Padre Felipe ! 

Old, Seiior, old ! just so old as the Mission. 

You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Seiior ? 

Fifteen year ? Twenty ? Ah, Seiior, just fifty 

Gone since I plant him ! 

You likie the wine ? It is some at the Mission, 
Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred ; 
All the same time when the earthquake he come to 

San Juan Bautista. 

But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; 
And I am the olive, and this is the garden : 
And " Pancha " we say, but her name is " Francisca," 

Same like her mother. 



IN THE MISSION GARDEN 105 

Eh, you knew her ? No ? Ah ! it is a story ; 
But I speak not, like Pachita, the English : 
So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, 

And shall not laugh, eh ? 

When the American come to the Mission, 
Many arrive at the house of Francisca : 
One, — he was fine man, — he buy the cattle 

Of Jose Castro. 

So ! he came much, and Francisca, she saw him : 
And it was love, — and a very dry season ; 
And the pears bake on the tree, — and the rain come, 

But not Francisca. 

Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much 
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, — 
Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, — 

Under the olive-tree. 

Sir, it was sad ; . . . but I speak not the English ; 
So ! . . . she stay here, and she wait for her husband : 
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; 

There stands Pachita. 

Ah ! there 's the Angelus. Will you not enter ? 
Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? 
Go, little rogue — st ! attend to the stranger ! 

Adios, Senor. 

PACHITA (briskly). 

So, he 's been telling that yarn about mother ! 
Bless you ! he tells it to every stranger : 
Folks about yer say the old man 's my father ; 

WTiat 's your opinion ? 



THE LOST GALLEON 1 

In sixteen hundred and forty-one, 

The regular yearly galleon, 

Laden with odorous gums and spice, 

India cottons and India rice, 

And the richest silks of far Cathay, 

Was due at Acapulco Bay. 

Due she was, and overdue, — 
Galleon, merchandise, and crew, 
Creeping along through rain and shine, 
Through the tropics, under the line. 
The trains were waiting outside the walli^ 
The wives of sailors thronged the town. 
The traders sat by their empty stalls, 
And the Viceroy himself came down ; 
The bells in the tower were all a-trip, 
Te Deums were on each Father's lip. 
The limes were ripening in the sun 
For the sick of the coming galleon. 

All in vain. Weeks passed away, 
And yet no galleon saw the bay. 
India goods advanced in price ; 
The Governor missed his favorite spice ; 
The Seiioritas mourned for sandal 
And the famous cottons of Coromandelj 
And some for an absent lover lost, 
And one for a husband, — Dofia Julia, 
1 See note, p. 327. 



THE LOST GALLEON 107 

Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, 
In circumstances so peculiar ; 
Even the Fathers, unawares, 
Grumbled a little at their prayers ; 
And all along the coast that year 
Votive candles were scarce and dear. 

Never a tear bedims the eye 
That time and patience will not dry ; 
Never a lip is curved with pain 
That can't be kissed into smiles again ; 
And these same truths, as far as I know. 
Obtained on the coast of Mexico 
More than two hundred years ago, 
In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, — 
Ten years after the deed was done, — 
And folks had forgotten the galleon : 
The divers plunged in the gulf for pearly 
White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; 
The traders sat by their full bazaars ; 
The mules with many a weary load, 
And oxen dragging their creaking cars, 
Came and went on the mountain road. 

Where was the galleon all this while ? 

Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, 

Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, 

Or sailing north under secret orders ? 

Had she found the Anian passage famed, 

By lying Maldonado claimed, 

And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree 

Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ? 

Or had she found the " Eiver of Kings," 

Of which De Fonte told such strange things, 

In sixteen forty ? Never a sign. 



i08 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

East or west or under the line, 

They saw of the missing galleon ; 

Never a sail or plank or chip 

They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, 

Or enough to build a tale upon. 

But when she was lost, and where and how^ 

Are the facts we 're coming to just now. 

Take, if you please, the chart oi that day, 
Published at Madrid, — jpor el Rey ; 
Look for a spot in the old South Sea, 
The hundred and eightieth degree 
Longitude west of Madrid : there, 
Under the equatorial glare. 
Just where the east and west are one, 
You '11 find the missing galleon, — 
You '11 find the San Gregorio, yet 
Riding the seas, with sails all set, 
Fresh as upon the very day 
She sailed from Acapulco Bay. 

How did she get there ? What strange spell 
Kept her two hundred years so well. 
Free from decay and mortal taint ? 
What but the prayers of a patron saint ! 

A hundred leagues from Manilla town, 

The San Gregorio' s helm came down *, 

Round she went on her heel, and not 

A cable's length from a galliot 

That rocked on the waters just abreast 

Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'-westw 

Then said the galleon's commandante, 
General Pedro Sobriente 



THE LOST GALLEON 109 

(That was his rank on land and main, 

A regular custom of Old Spain), 
" My pilot is dead of scurvy : may 

I ask the longitude, time, and day ? " 

The first two given and compared ; 

The third — the commandante stared ! 
" The first of June ? I make it second." 

Said the stranger, " Then you 've wrongly reckoned ; 

I make it first : as you came this way, 

You should have lost, d' ye see, a day ; 

Lost a day, as plainly see, 

On the hundred and eightieth degree." 
" Lost a day ? " " Yes ; if not rude. 

When did you make east longitude ? " 
" On the ninth of May, — our patron's day." 
" On the ninth ? — you had no ninth of May ! 

Eighth and tenth was there ; but stay " — 

Too late ; for the galleon bore away. 

Lost was the day they should have kept, 
Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; 
Lost in a way that made search vain, 
Lost in a trackless and boundless main;- 
Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, 
In his third chapter, third and fourth verse; 
Wrecked was their patron's only day, — 
What would the holy Fathers say ? 

Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, 
The galleon's chaplain, — a learned man, — ■ 
" Nothing is lost that you can regain ; 
And the way to look for a thing is plain, 
To go where you lost it, back again. 
Back with your galleon till you see 
The hundred and eightieth degree„ 



lie SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Wait till the rolling year goes round, 
And there will the missing day be found ; 
For you '11 find, if computation 's true, 
That sailing East will give to you 
Not only one ninth of May, but two, — 
One for the good saint's present cheer, 
And one for the day we lost last year." 

Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; 

Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on 

The hundred and eightieth degree 

She rose and fell on a tropic sea. 

But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May> 

All of a sudden becalmed she lay 

One degree from that fatal spot. 

Without the power to move a knot ; 

And of course the moment she lost her way, 

Gone was her chance to save that day. 

To cut a lengthening story short. 

She never saved it. Made the sport 

Of evil spirits and baffling wind. 

She was always before or just behind, 

One day too soon or one day too late, 

And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. 

She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, 

Two Tenths, but never a Ninth of May ; 

And there she rides through two hundred years 

Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; 

Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, 

Captain and crew are still preserved. 

By a computation that still holds good, 
Made by the Holy Brotherhood, 
The San Gregorio will cross that line 



THE LOST GALLEON m 

In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine : 
Just three hundred years to a day 
From the time she lost the ninth of May. 
And the folk in Acapulco town, 
Over the waters looking down, 
Will see in the glow of the setting sun 
The sails of the missing galleon, 
And the royal standard of Philip Key, 
The gleaming mast and glistening spar, 
As she nears the surf of the outer bar. 
A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, 
An odor of spice along the shore, 

A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, 

And the yearly galleon sails no more 

In or out of the olden bay ; 

For the blessed patron has found his day. 



Such is the legend. Hear this truth : 
Over the trackless past, somewhere, 

Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, 
Only regained by faith and prayer, 

Only recalled by prayer and plaint : 

Each lost day has its patron saint I 



III. IN DIALECT 
"JIM" 

Sat there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offense : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That 's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! You 
Ain't of that crew, •— 

Blest if you are ! 

Money ? Not much : 
That ain't my kind ; 

I ain't no such. 

Eum ? I don't mind, 

Seein' it 's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, — 
Did you know him ? 
Jes' 'bout your size ; 
Same kind of eyes ; — 



"JIM" 113 

Well, that is strange : 

Why, it 's two year 

Since he came here, 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here 's to us : 

Eh? 
The h you say 1 

Dead? 
That little cuss ? 

What makes you star*, 
You over thar ? 
Can't a man drop 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must r'ar ? 

It would n't take 

D d much to break 

You and your bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor — little — Jim I 
Why, thar was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take him ! 

Well, thar— Good-by — 
No more, sir — I — 

Eh? 
What 's that you say ? 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No ? Yes ! By Joe ! 

Sold ! 



114 IN DIALECT 

Sold ! Why, you limb, 
You ornery, 

Derned old 
Long-legged Jim. 



CHIQUITA 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match 

in the county ; 
Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? 
Feel of that neck, sir, — thar 's velvet ! Whoa ! steady, — 

ah, will you, you vixen ! 
Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look 

at her paces. 

Morgan ! — she ain't nothing else, and I 've got the papers 

to prove it. 
Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't 

buy her. 
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of 

Tuolumne ? 
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down 

in 'Frisco ? 

Hed n't no savey, bed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that '11 do, — 

quit that foolin' ! 
No thin' to what she kin do, when she 's got her work cut 

out before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and. likewise, too, jockeys is 

jockeys : 
A.nd 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a boss has 

got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's 

leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low 

water ! 



116 IN DIALECT 

Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his 

nevey 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water 

all round us ; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just 

a-bilin', 
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the 

river. 
I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, 

Chiquita ; 
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of 

the caiion. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chi- 
quita 

Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to 
her rider, 

Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and 
me standing. 

And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and 
a-drif tin' to thunder ! 

Wonld ye b'lieve it ? That night, that boss, that 'ar filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and 

dripping : 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, 
Just as she swam the Fork, — that boss, that 'ar filly, 

Chiquita. 

That 's what I call a boss ! and — What did you say ? — 

Oh, the nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem back to 

deny it. 



CHIQUITA 117 

Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye could n't have made 

him a rider ; 
And then, ye know, hoys will be boys, and bosses — well, 

bosses is bosses 1 



DOWS FLAT 

(1856) 

Dow's Flat. That 's its name ; 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same ? 
Well, I thought it was true, — 
For thar is n't a man on the river as can't spot the place at 
first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass, ~ 
And as to the how 

Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here 
in the grass. 

You see this 'yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
He slipped up somehow 

On each thing thet he struck. 
Why, ef he 'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 
'd get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he could n't pay rates ; 
He was smashed by a car 

When he tunneled with Bates ; 
And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five 
kids from the States. 



DOW'S FLAT 119 

It was rough, — mighty rough ; 
But the boys they stood by, 
And they brought him the stuff 
For a house, on the sly ; 
ind the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took OB 
when no one was nigh. 

But this 'yer luck of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean 
That the spring near his house 
Dried right up on the green ; 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to 
be seen. 

Then the bar petered out, 

And the boys would n't stay ; 
And the chills got about. 
And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous 
way. 

One day, - — it was June, — 

And a year ago, jest — 
This Dow kem at noon 
To his work like the rest, 
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid 
in his breast. 

He goes to the well, 

And he stands on the brink, 
And stops for a spell 

Jest to listen and think : 
For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder 
made the cuss blink. 



120 IN DIALECT 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 
And a gownd that was SaPs 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I Ve 
heer'd the folks say. 

And — That 's a peart hoss 

Thet you 've got, — ain't it now ? 
What might be her cost ? 

Eh ? Oh ! — Well, then, Dow — 
Let 's see, — well, that forty-foot grave was n't his, sir, that 
day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved in the side. 
And he looked and turned sick. 
Then he trembled and cried. 
For you see the dern cuss had struck — " Water ? " — Beg 
your parding, young man, — there you 
lied ! 

It was gold, — in the quartz, 

And it ran all alike ; 
And I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 
And that house with the coopilow 's his'n, — which the 
same isn't bad for a Pike. 

Thet's why it 's Dow's Flat ; 

And the thing of it is 
That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrairiness : 
For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck 
made him certain to miss. 



DOW'S FLAT 121 

Thet 's so ! Thar 's your way, 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say ? 
Won't you come up to tea ? 
Kg ? Well, then the next time you 're passin' ; and ask 
after Dow, — and thet 's me. 



IN THE TUNNEL 

Did n't know Elynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 
Long as he 's been 'yar ? 
Look 'ee here, stranger, 
Whar hev you been ? 

Here in this tunnel 
He was my pardner, 

That same Tom Flynn, — 
Working together. 
In wind and weather, 

Day out and in. 

Did nH know Flynn ! 
Well, that is queer ; 

Why, it 's a sin 

To think of Tom Flynn, — 
Tom with his cheer, 
Tom without fear, — 
Stranger, look 'yar ! 

Thar in the drift. 

Back to the wall. 
He held the timbers 

Ready to fall ; 
Then in the darkness 
I heard him call : 

" Run for your life, Jake ! 

Run for your wife's sake ! 

Don't wait for me." 



IN THE TUNNEL 123 

And that was all 
Heard in the din, 
Heard of Tom Flynn, -« 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That 's all about 

Flynn of Virginia. 
That lets me out. 

Here in the damp^ — 
Out of the sun, — 

That 'ar derned lamp 
Makes my eyes run. 
Well, there, — I 'm done I 

But, sir, when you '11 
Hear the next fool 

Asking of Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 

Just you chip in. 

Say you knew Flynn ; 
Say that you 've been 'yaii 



"CICELY • 
(alkali station) 

Cicely says you 're a poet ; maybe, — I ain't much on 

rhyme : 
I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every 

time. 
Poetry ! — that 's the way some chaps puts up an idee, 
But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's 

what's the matter with me. 

Poetry ! — just look round you, — alkali, rock, and sage ; 
Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain't it a pretty page ! 
Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, 
And the shadow of this 'yer station the on'y thing moves 
in sight. 

Poetry ! — Well now — Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; 
Run right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? 
Poetry ! — that reminds me o' suthin' right in that suit : 
Jest shet that door thar, will yer ? — for Cicely's ears ift 
cute. 

Ye noticed Polly, — the baby ? A month afore she was 

born. 
Cicely — my old woman — was moody-like and forlorn ; 
Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and 

trees ; 
Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman 

he's. 



" CICELY " 125 

Narvous she was, and restless, — said that she "couldn't 

stay." 
Stay ! — and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. 
But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would he 

on hand, 
And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that hit o* 

land. 

One night, — - the tenth of October, — I woke with a chill 

and a fright. 
For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in 

sight. 
But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that 

she " could n't stay," 
But had gone to visit her neighbor, — seventeen miles 

away ! 

When and how she stampeded, I did n't wait for to see. 
For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; 
Hunning first this way and that way, like a hound that is 

off the scent, 
For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the 

way she went. 

I 've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this 

spot, — 
Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost and shot ; 
But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife. 
Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. 

" Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! " I called, and I held my breath, 
And " Cicely ! " came from the canyon, — and all was as 

still as death. 
And " Cicely I Cicely ! Cicely ! " came from the rocks below, 
And jest but a whisper of " Cicely I " down from them 

peaks of snow. 



126 IN DIALECT 

I ain't what you call religious, — but I jest looked up tp 

the sky, 
And — this 'yer 's to what I 'm coming, and maybe ye think 

I lie : 
But up away to the eastward, yaller and big and far, 
I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. 

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : 
Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : 
Big and yaller and dancing, — I never saw such a star. 
And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I wenft 
for it then and thar. 

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead ; 

Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led. 

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart an^ 

nigh, 
Out qf the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. 

Listen ! thar 's the same music ; but her lungs they are 

stronger now 
Than the day I packed her and her mother, — I'm derned 

if I jest know how. 
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the 

whole thing is 
That Cis never knew what happened from that very night 

to this ! 

But Cicely says you 're a poet, and maybe you might, some 

day. 
Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a 

curious way, 
And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of 

the star, don't tell 
As how 't was the doctor's lantern, — for maybe 't won't 

sound so well. 



PENELOPE 

(Simpson's bar, 1858) 

So you 've kern 'yer agen, 

And one answer won't do ? 
Well, of all the derned men 
That I 've struck, it is you. 
O Sal I 'yer 's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin* 
round 'yer in the dew. 

Kem in, ef you will. 

Thar, — quit ! Take a cheer. 
Not that ; you can't fill 

Them theer cushings this year, — 
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they 
don't make such men about 'yer. 

He was tall, was my Jack, 
And as strong as a tree. 
Thar 's his gun on the rack, — 
Jest you heft it, and see. 
And you come a courtin' his widder ! Lord ! where can 
that critter, Sal, be ! 

You 'd fill my Jack's place ? 

And a man of your size, — 
With no baird to his face. 
Nor a snap to his eyes. 
And nary — Sho ! thar ! I was foolin', — I was, Joe, for 
sartain, — don't rise. 



128 IN DIALECT 

Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! 

I *m as weak as a gal. 
Sal ! Don't you go, Joe, 
Or I '11 faint, — sure, I shall. 
Sit down, — anywheevy where you like, Joe, — in that 
cheer, if you choose, — Lord ! where 's 
Sal? 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FEOM TRUTHFUL JAMES 
(table mountain, 1870) 

Which I wish to remark, 

And my language is plain, 
That for ways that are dark 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name ; 

And I shall not deny, 
In regard to the same, 

What that name might imply ; 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

And quite soft was the skies; 
Which it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand : 
It was Euchre. The same 

He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 

With the smile that was childlike and bland. 



130 IN DIALECT 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
And my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
"Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers^ 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made. 

Were quite frightful to see, — 
Till at last he put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nj^e, 

And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, " Can this be ? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," — 

And he went ior that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand, 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
• "With the cards that Ah Sin had been hidingj 

In the game " he did not understand.*' 

In his sleeves, which were long, 
He had twenty -four packs, — 

Which was coming it strong. 
Yet I state but the facts ; 

And we found on his nails, which were taperj 
What is frequent in tapers, — that 's wax. 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 131 

Which is why I remark, 

And my language is plain, 
That for ways that are dark 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 

1 RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 

James ; 
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 
And I '11 tell in simple language what I know about the 

row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man. 
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim. 
To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society, 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, 
!From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the 

rules. 
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his 

lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at 

fault, 
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault j 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 133 

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 
To say another is an ass, — at least, to all intent ; 
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of AngePs raised a point of order, when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on th< 

floor. 
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was 

a sin, 
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of 

Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 

James ; 
And I 've told in simple language what I know about the 

row 
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 



LUKE 

(in the COLORADO PARK, 1873) 

Wot 's that you 're readin ' ? — a novel ? A novel ! — well, 

darn my skin ! 
You a man grown and bearded and histin' such stuff ez 

that in — 
Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! No wonder you 're 

thin ez a knife. 
Look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one in 

my life ! 

That 's my opinion o' novels. And ez to their lyin' round 

here, 
They belong to the Jedge's daughter — the Jedge who came 

up last year 
On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam 

o' pine and fir ; 
And his daughter — well, she read novels, and that 's what 's 

the matter with her. 

Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and 

night, 
Alone in the cabin up 'yer — till she grew like a ghost, all 

white. 
She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and 

away 
£z rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she was n't 

my kind — no way ! 



LUKE 135 

Speakin' o' gals, d^ye mind that house ez you rise the 

hill, 
A mile and a half from White's, and jist above Mattingly's 

mill? 
You do ? Well now thar 's a gal ! What ! you saw her ? 

Oh, come now, thar I quit ! 
She was only bedevlin' you boys, for to me she donH cotton 

one bit. 

Kow she 's what I call a gal — ez pretty and plump ez a 
quail ; 

Teeth ez white ez a hound's, and they 'd go through a ten- 
penny nail ; 

Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know 
" whar I was hid ? " 

She did ! Oh, it 's jist like her sass, for she 's peart ez a 
Katydid. 

But what was I talking of ? — Oh ! the Jedge and his 

daughter — she read 
Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them 

abed ; 
And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the 

porch where he sat. 
And 't was how " Lord Augustus " said this, and how 

" Lady Blanche '' she said that. 

But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they 

read 'bout a chap, 
" Leather-stocking " by name, and a hunter chock full o' 

the greenest o' sap j 
And they asked me to hear, but I says, " Miss Mabel, not 

any for me ; 
When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I 

should n't agree." 



136 IN DIALECT 

Yet somehow or other that gal alius said that I brought her 

to mind 
Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of thet 

kind, 
And thar warn't no end o' the names that she give me thet 

summer up here — 
"Eobin Hood,'' "Leather-stocking," "Rob Eoy," — Oh, I 

tell you, the critter was queer ! 

And yet, ef she had n't been spiled, she was harmless enough 

in her way ; 
She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that 

she knew how to play ; 
And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the 

man does n't live ez kin use ; 
And slippers — you see 'em down 'yer — ez would cradle an 

Injin^s papoose. 

Yet along o' them novels, you see, she was wastin' and 

mopin' away. 
And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last she had 

nothin' to say ; 
And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a 

book. 
And it warn't till the day she left that she give me ez much 

ez a look. 

And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem 

up here 
To say to 'em all " good-by," for I reckoned to go for 

deer 
At " sun up " the day they left. So I shook 'em all round 

by the hand, 
'Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to undeiv 

stand. 



LUKE 187 

But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some 

one, 
Like a little waver o' mist got up on the hill with the 

sun; 
Miss Mabel it was, alone — all wrapped in a mantle o' 

lace — 
And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o' 

the sun in her face. 

And she looked me right in the eye — I 'd seen suthin' like 

it before 
When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o' the Clear 

Lake Shore, 
And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin' my 

knife. 
When it give me a look like that, and — well, it got off with 

its life. 

" We are going to-day," she said, " and I thought I would 

say good-by 
To you in your own house, Luke — these woods and the 

bright blue sky ! 
You 've always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found 

you still 
As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel 

Tree Hill. 

" And we '11 always think of you, Luke, as the thing we 

could not take away, — 
The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that 

lives in the spray. 
And you '11 sometimes think of me, Luke, as you know you 

once used to say, 
A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but 

never to stay." 



138 IN DIALECT 

And then we shook hands. She turned, hut a-suddent she 

tottered and fell, 
And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minifc. 

Well, 
It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white 

she lay 
Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then — well, she 

melted away — 

And was gone. . . . And thar are her books ; but I says 

not any for me ; 
Good enough may be for some, but them and I mightn't 

agree. 
They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a 

wife. 
And look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one 

in my life I 



"THE BABES IN THE WOODS'^ 
(big pine flat, 1871) 

" Something characteristic," eh ? 

Humph ! I reckon you mean by that 
Something that happened in our way, 

Here at the crossin' of Big Pine Flat. 
Times are n't now as they used to be, 

When gold was flush and the boys were frisky^ 
And a man would pull out his battery 

Eor anything — maybe the price of whiskey. 

Nothing of that sort, eh ? That 's strange ! 

Why, I thought you might be diverted 
Hearing how Jones of E-ed E.ock Range 

Drawed his " hint to the unconverted,'' 
And saying, " Whar will you have it ? " shot 

Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! 
What was the question I forgot. 

But Jones did n't like Bob's way of stating. 

Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean 

Something milder ? Let 's see ! — Joe I 
Tell to the stranger that little scene 

Out of the " Babes in the Woods." You know, 
" Babes " was the name that we gave 'em, sir, 

Two lean lads in their teens, and greener 
Than even the belt of spruce and fir 

Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner. 



140 IN DIALECT 

No one knew where they came from. None 

Cared to ask if they had a mother. 
Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One 

Tall and dark as a spruce ; the other 
Blue and gold in the eyes and hair; 

Soft and low in his speech, but rarely 
Talking with us ; and we did n't care 

To get at their secret at all unfairly. 

For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, 

Content to trust each other solely, 
That somehow we 'd always shut one eye, 

And never seem to observe them wholly 
As they passed to their work. 'T was a worn-out claiiOf 

And it paid them grub. They could live without it, 
For the boys had a way of leaving game 

In their tent, and forgetting all about it. 

Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb 

It lay in their big eyes' heavy hollows. 
It was understood that no one should come 

To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallowSo 
So they lived alone. Until one warm night 

I was sitting here at the tent-door, — so, sir ! 
When out of the sunset's rosy light 

Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. 

I knew at once there was something wrong, 

For his hand and his voice shook just a little, 
And there is n't much you can fetch along 

To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. 
"Go warn the Babes ! " he whispered, hoarse^ 

" Tell them I 'm coming — to get and scurry 5 
For I 've got a story that 's bad, — and worse, 

I 've got a warrant : G — d d — n it, hurry ! " 



"THE BABES IN THE WOODS" 141 

Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; 

I ran to their tent and found them lying 
Dead in each other's arms, and still 

Clasping the drug they had taken flying. 
And there lay their secret cold and bare, 

Their life, their trial — the old, old story ! 
For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair 

Was a woman^s shame and a woman^s glory. 

^ Who were they ? " Ask no more, or ask 

The sun that visits their grave so lightly ; 
Ask of the whispering reeds, or task 

The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. 
All of their life but its love forgot. 

Everything tender and soft and mystic, 
These are our Babes in the Woods, — you 've got^ 

Well — human nature — that 's characteristic. 



THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 

It was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, 
And was passin' remarks goin' back to our claim ; 
Jones was countin' his chips, Smith relievin' his mind 
Of ideas that a " straight '' should beat " three of a kind," 
When Johnson of Elko came gallopin' down. 
With a look on his face 'twixt a grin and a frown. 
And he calls, " Drop your shovels and face right about, 
For them Chinees from Murphy's are cleanin' us out — 

With their ching-a-ring-chow 

And their chic-colorow 

They're bent upon making 

No slouch of a row." 

Then Jones — my own pardner — looks up with a sigh ; 
" It 's your wash-bill," sez he, and I answers, " You lie ! " 
But afore he could draw or the others could arm, 
Up tumbles the Bates boys, who heard the alarm. 
And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, 
Mixed up with remarks like " Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong," 
And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the 

trees, 
Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! 

Eour hundred Chinee ; 

We are eight, don't ye see ! 

That made a square fifty 

To just one o' we. 

They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same 
Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; 



THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 143 

And my pardner's best shirt and his trousers were hung 
On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; 
While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjurer sat 
Pullin' out eggs and chickens from Johnson's best hat ; 
And Bates's game rooster was part of their ** loot," 
And all of Smith's pigs were skyugled to boot ; 
But the climax was reached and I like to have died 
When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside, — ^ 

Down the hillside — 

What once held the pride 

Of Robertson County 

Pitched down the hillside ! 

Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din 
To the front comes a-rockin' that heathen, Ah Sin ! 
" You owe flowty dollee — me washee you camp. 
You catchee my washee — me catchee no stamp ; 
One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, 
Now that flowty dollee — no hab ? — how can get ? 
Me catchee you piggee — me sellee for cash, 
It catchee me licee — you catchee no ' hash ; ' 
Me belly good Sheliff — me lebbee when can, 
Me allee same halp pin as Melican man ! 

But Melican man 

He washee him pan 

On bottom side hillee 

And catchee — how can ? '* 

" Are we men ? " says Joe Johnson, " and list to this jaw, 

Without process of warrant or color of law ? 

Are we men or — a-chew ! " — here he gasped in his speech, 

For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. 

" Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour 

Her barbaric hordes on this civilized shore ? 

Has the White Man no country ? Are w^e left in the lurch? 

And likewise what 's gone of the Established Church ? 



£44 IN DIALECT 

One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, 
. But this 'yer 's a White Man — I plays it alone ! " 
And he sprang up the hillside — to stop him none dare — 
Till a yell from the top told a " White Man was there I " 

A White Man was there ! 

We prayed he might spare 

Those misguided heathens 

The few clothes they wear. 

They fled, and he followed, but no matter where ; 

They fled to escape him, — the " White Man was there," — 

Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, 

And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; 

And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, 

" It simply was human to bury his dead." 

And then, with slow tread, 

We crept up, in dread. 

But found nary mortal there, 

Living or dead. 

But there was his trail, and the way that they came, 

And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. 

When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson says 

" Shoo ! " - 

And both of 'era points to a cage of bamboo 
Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung 
Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue. 
Which, when freely translated, the same did appear 
Was the Chinese for saying, " A White Man is here ! '* 

And as we drew near, 

In anger and fear. 

Bound hand and foot, Johnson 

Looked down with a leer ! 

In his mouth was an opium pipe — which was why 
He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! 



THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 145 

They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, 
They had painted his face of a coppery hue, 
And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, 
Then softly departed, each man with his " loot." 

Yes, every galoot. 

And Ah Sin, to boot. 

Had left him there hanging 

Like ripening fruit. 

At a mass meeting held up at Murphy's next day 
There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; 
There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, 
And each resolution was worse than the last ; 
There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same^ 
Will determine what Governor Murphy's shall name ; 
And the man from our district that goes up next year 
Goes up on one issue — that 's patent and clear : 
" Can the work of a mean, 

Degraded, unclean 

Believer in Buddha 

Be held as a lien ? *' 



TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR 

(yreka, 1873) 

Which it is not my style 

To produce needless pain 
By statements that rile 
Or that go 'gin the grain, 
But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no 
skelp on his brain ! 

On that Caucasian head 

There is no crown of hair ; 
It has gone, it has fled ! 
And Echo sez " Where ? " 
And I asks, " Is this Nation a White Man's, and is gener- 
ally things on the square ? '' 

She was known in the camp 
As " Nye's other squaw," 
And folks of that stamp 
Hez no rights in the law, 
But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well 
known before. 

But she said that she knew 

Where the Injins was hid. 
And the statement was true, 
For it seemed that she did, 
Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen 
Modocs, and — slid ! 



TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR 147 

Then they reached for his hair ; 

Bat Nye sez, " By the law 
Of nations, forbear ! 

I surrenders — no more : 
And I looks to be treated, — you hear me ? — as a prisoner, 
a pris'ner of war ! '' 

But Captain Jack rose 

And he sez, ^* It 's too thin ! 
Such statements as those 
It 's too late to begin. 
There's a Modoc indictment agin you, Paleface, and 
you 're goin' in ! 

" You stole Schonchin's squaw 
, In the year sixty-two ; 

It was in sixty-four 

That Long Jack you went through. 
And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and 
his papooses too. 

'* This gun in my hand 
Was sold me by you 
'Gainst the law of the land, 
And I grieves it is true ! " 
And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it 
from view. 

" But you 're tried and condemned, 
And skelping 's your doom," 
And he paused and he hemmed — 
But why this resume ? 
He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off 
like a rose in its bloom. 



^^ IN DIALECT 

So I asks without guile, 

And I trusts not in vain, 
If this is the style 

That is going to ohtain — 
If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and IsTye with no skelp 
on his brain ? 



AN IDYL OF THE EOAD 

i 

(sierras, 1876) 
DRAMATIS PERSONiE 

First Tourist " Yuba Bill, Driver 

Second Tourist A Stranger 

FIRST TOURIST 

Look how the upland plunges into cover, 

Green where the pines fade sullenly away. 
Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, moreover- 

SECOND TOURIST 

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. 

FIRST TOURIST 

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it. 

Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay : 
Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it — 

SECOND TOURIST 

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. 
Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner 

That on our stomachs would comfortably stay ; 
Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, 

That must confront us at closing of the day : 
Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, 

Then might we each make a metrical essay ; 
But verse just now — I must protest and urge — ill 

Fits a digestion by travel led astrayc 



150 IN DIALECT 

CHORUS OF PASSENGERS 

Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner I 
Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. 

SECOND TOURIST 

William of Yuba, Son of IsTimshi, hearken ! 

Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play. 
Tell us, William, before the shadows darken. 

Where, and, oh ! how we shall dine ? William, say I 

YUBA BILL 

It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, 

Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, 
Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon — ■ 

Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. 
Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled. 

Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay — 
Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled j 

Eed on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. 

SECOND TOURIST 

praise is but breath, chariot compeller ! 
Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. 

TUBA BILL 

Thar woz a snipe — like you, a fancy tourist — 

Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, 
Kan off the gal, and ruined jist the purist 

Critter that lived — 

STRANGER (quietly) 

You 're a liar, driver ! 

YUBA BILL (reaching for his revolver). 

Eh! 
Here take my lines, somebody — 



AN IDYL OF THE ROAD 151 

CHORUS OF PASSENGERS 

Hush, boys ! listen ! 
Inside there 's a lady ! Remember ! No affray ! 

YUBA BILL 

Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. 

STRANGER 

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away. 

Then — as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe 
me, 
Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, 

If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, 
She is the lady we have inside to-day. 

As for the man — you see that blackened pine tree, 
Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! 

He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly 
Clothed him with life again, and lifted — 



SECOND TOURIST 



How know you this ? 



Yes ; but pray 



STRANGER 

She 's my wife. 

TUBA BILL 



The h — ^11 you say 1 



THOMPSON OF ANGELS 

It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of 
Angels. 

Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the 
stranger ; 

Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his re- 
volver ; 

Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. 

Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels ; 
Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, 
"Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who 

in folly 
Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and 

freedom ? 

•* Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left 

eyelid, 
The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone 

marbles 
Lean on his chisel and gaze ? I care not o'er much for 

attention ; 
Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and 

freedom." 

So spake that pensive man ■— this Thompson, the hero of 

Angels, 
Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chap- 

paral musing. ^ 



THOMPSON OF ANGELS 153 

" Why, oh, why ? " echoed the pines in the dark olive depth 

far resounding. 
'' Why, indeed ? " whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath 

his feet non-elastic. 

Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the bar- 
room at Angels, 

Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of 
the hamlet. 

Six " took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper lightly 

Smiled as they said, " Well, Jim, you can give us our regu- 
lar fusil." 

Suddenly as the gray hawk swoops down on the barnyard, 

alighting 
Where, pensively picking their corn, the favorite pullets are 

gathered, * 

So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of 

Angels, 
Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and 

freedom. 

Kever a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments. 
Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, 
Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- 
lenge. 
Spake : " Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the 
mountain." 

Then rose a pallid man — a man sick with fever and ague ; 
Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un-. 

certain; 
Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thomp. 

son ; 
Said in his feeblest pipe, " I 'm a Bald-headed Snipe of 

the Valley." 



154 IN DIALECT 

As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, 
Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the 

thickets, 
So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind 

him 
Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the 

Valley. 

Vain at the festive bar still lingered tlie people of Angels, 
Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; 
Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- 
tains, 
Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. 

Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are 

uttered, 
When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling 

misstatement. 
Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of 

Angels, 
Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the 

Valley I 



THF HAWK'S NEST 
(sierras) 

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding 

We heard the troubled flow 
Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding 

A thousand feet below. 

Above the tumult of the canon lifted. 

The gray hawk breathless hung, 
Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted 

Where furze and thorn-bush clung j 

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed 

With many a seam and scar ; 
Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, — 

A mole-hill seen so far. 

We looked in silence down across the distant 

Unfathomable reach : 
A silence broken by the guide's consistent 

And realistic speech. 

•'^ Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters 
For telling him he lied ; 
Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos 
Across the Long Divide. 

** We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, 
And 'cross the ford below. 



156 m DIALECT 

And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), 
And me and Clark and Joe. 

" He fou't us game : somehow I disremember 
. Jest how the thing kem round ; 
Some say 't was wadding, some a scattered ember 
From fires on the ground. 

^* But in one minute all the hill below him 
Was just one sheet of flame ; 
Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, 
And, — well, the dog was game ! 

'* He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him. 
The pit of hell below. 
We sat and waited, but we never found him ; 
And then we turned to go. 

" And then — you see that rock that 's grown so bristlj 
With chapparal and tan — 
Suthin crep' out : it might hev been a grizzly 
It might hev been a man ; 

'* Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted 
In smoke and dust and flame ; 
Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, 
Grizzly or man, — but game ! 

" That 's all ! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, 
And kinder makes one queer 
And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey 
Ain't a bad thing right here ! " 



HER LETTER 

I 'm sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I came from the dance^ 
In a robe even you would admire, — 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I 'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, ^^ the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour upon you. 

A dozen engagements I 've broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken. 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 
They say he '11 be rich, — when he grows up^ 

And then he adores me indeed ; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles oJGT, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position ? '' 

"And what do I think of New York ?'* 
" And now, in my higher ambition. 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? '* 
*' And is n't it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all that ? ** 
" And are n't they a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat ? '' 

Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand. 



158 IN DIALECT 

If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
To look Supernaturally grand, — 

If you saw papa's picture, as taken 
By Brady, and tinted at that, — 

You 'd never suspect he sold bacon 
And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, ju^t this moment, when sitting 

Id the glare of the grand chandelier,— 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The '^ finest soiree of the year," — 
In the mists of a gaze de Chamheryy 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, — 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the ^' Ferry,'' 

And the dance that we had on " The Fork \ ^ 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGeej 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 

On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 

Of — the something you said at the gate 
Ah ! Joe, then I was n't an heiress 

To "the best-paying lead in the State," 

Well, well, it 's all past ; yet it 's funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare 



i 



HER LETTER 159 

Of fashion and beauty and money, 

Tliat I should be thinking, right there, 

Of some one who breasted high water. 
And swam the North Fork, and all that, 

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, 
The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I 'm writing I 

(Mamma says my taste still is low), 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I 'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! 
And I ^m to be ^^ finished " by travel, — 

Whatever 's the meaning of that. 
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night ! — here 's the end of my paper; 

Good-night ! — if the longitude please, — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper. 

Your sun 's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you have n't got riches. 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches, 

And you 've struck it, — on Poverty Flat. 



HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER'' 
(reported by truthful james) 

Being asked by an intimate party, — 

Which the same I would term as a friend, — 
Though his health it were vain to call hearty, 

Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; 
For his arm it was broken quite recent, 

And there 's something gone wrong with his lung, 
Which is why it is proper and decent 

I should write what he runs off his tongue. 

First, he says. Miss, he ^s read through your letter 

To the end, — and " the end came too soon j " 
That a " slight illness kept him your debtor,'' 

(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; 
That " his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; " 

That with you. Miss, he " challenges Fate," 
(Which the language that invalid uses 

At times it were vain to relate). 

And he says " that the mountains are fairer 

For once being held in your thought ; " 
That each rock " holds a wealth that is rarer 

Than ever by gold-seeker sought." 
(Which are words he would put in these pages. 

By a party not given to guile ; 
Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, 

Might produce in the sinful a smile.) 



HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER" 161 

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, 

And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, 
And the rose that yon gave him, — that very 

Same rose he is " treasuring now.'' 
(Which his blanket he 's kicked on his trunk, Miss, 

And insists on his legs being free ; 
And his language to me from his bunk. Miss, 

Is frequent and painful and free.) 

He hopes you are wearing no willows. 

But are happy and gay all the while ; 
That he knows — (which this dodging of pillows 

Imparts but small ease to the style. 
And the same you will pardon) — he knows, Miss, 

That, though parted by many a mile, 
" Yet, were he lying under the snows. Miss, 

They 'd mel« into tears at your smile.'' 

And " you '11 still think of him in your pleasures, 

In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; 
In this green laurel spray that he treasures, — 

It was plucked where your parting was last ; 
In this specimen, — - but a small trifle, — 

It will do for a pin for your shawl." 
(Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle. 

Was his last week's " clean up," — and his all.) 

He 's asleep, which the same might seem strange, MisS| 

Were it not that I scorn to deny 
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, 

In view that his fever was high ; 
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. 

And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; 
Which my language, although comprehensive. 

Might seem to be freedom, is true. 



162 IN DIALECT 

For I have a small favor to ask you, 

As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, — 
If the duty would not overtask you, — 

You would please to procure for me, game ; 
And send per express to the Flat, Miss, — 

For they say York is famed for the breed. 
Which, though words of deceit may be that, MisSy 

I '11 trust to your taste. Miss, indeed. 

P.S. — Which this same interfering 

Into other folks' way I despise ; * 

Yet if it so be I was hearing 

That it 's just empty pockets as lies 
Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers 

That, having no family claims. 
Here 's my pile, which it 's six hundred dollars. 

As is yoursy with respects, 

TsuTHFUL James. 



"THE EETUKN OF BELISAEIUS'^ 
(mud flat, 1860) 

So you 're back from your travels, old fellow. 

And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; 
You 've hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, 

Eugenie, and kissed the Pope's toe. 
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning. 

Astounding, — and all that, you know ; 
Yes, things are about as you left them 

In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. 

The boys ! — they 're all right, — Oh ! Dick Ashley, 

He 's buried somewhere in the snow ; 
He was lost on the Summit last winter, 

And Bob has a hard row to hoe. 
You know that he 's got the consumption ? 

You did n't ! Well, come, that 's a go 5 
I certainly wrote you at Baden, — 

Dear me ! that was six months ago. 

I got all your outlandish letters, 

All stamped by some foreign P. 0. 
I handed myself to Miss Mary 

That sketch of a famous chateau. 
Tom Saunders is living at 'Frisco, — 

They say that he cuts quite a show., 
You did n't meet Euchre-deck Billy 

Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? 



164 IN DIALECT 

So you thought of the rusty old cabin, 

The pines, and the valley below, 
And heard the North Fork of the Yuba 

As you stood on the banks of the Po ? 
'T was just like your romance, old fellow • 

But now there is standing a row 
Of stores on the site of the cabin 

That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. 

But it 's jolly to see you, old fellow, — 

To think it 's a twelvemonth ago ! 
And you have seen Louis Napoleon, 

And look like a Johnny Crapaud. 
Come in. You will surely see Mary, — 

You know we are married. What, no ?* 
Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something 

Between you a twelvemonth ago. 



FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL 

JAMES 

(nYE's ford, STANISLAUS, 1870) 

Do I sleep ? do I dream ? 
Do I wonder and doubt ? 
Are things what they seem ? 
Or is visions about ? 
Is our civilization a failure ? 
Or is the Caucasian played out ? 

Which expressions are strong ; 

Yet would feebly imply 

Some account of a wrong — 

Not to call it a lie — 

As was worked off on William, my pardner, 

And the same being W. Nye. 

He came down to the Ford 

On the very same day 

Of that lottery d rawed 

By those sharps at the Bay ; 

And he says to me, " Truthful, how goes it ? '^ 

I replied, "It is far, far from gay ; 

^For the camp has gone wild 

On this lottery game, 

And has even beguiled 
*Injin Dick ' by the same." 

Then said Nye to me, " Injins is pizen; 

But what is his number, eh, James ? " 



166 IN DIALECT 

I replied, '' 7, 2, 

9, 8, 4, is his hand ; " 

When lie started, and drew 

Out a list, which he scanned ; 

Then he softly went for his revolver 

With language I cannot command. 

Then I said, " William Nye ! '* 

But he turned upon me. 

And the look in his eye 

Was quite painful to see ; 

And he says, " You mistake ; this poor Injin 

I protects from such sharps as i/ou be ! " 

I was shocked and withdrew j 

But I grieve to relate, 

When he next met my view 

Injin Dick was his mate ; 

And the two around town was a-lying 

In a frightfully dissolute state. 

Which the war dance they had 
Kound a tree at the Bend 
Was a sight that was sad ; 
And it seemed that the end 
Would not justify the proceedings, 
As I quiet remarked to a friend. 

For that Injin he fled 

The next day to his band ; 

And we found William spread 

Very loose on the strand, 

With a peaceful-like smile on his features, 

And a dollar greenback in his hand ; 



FUKTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 167 

Which the same, when rolled out, 
We observed, with surprise, 
Was what he, no doubt, 

Thought the number and prize 

Them figures in red in the corner. 
Which the number of notes specifies. 

Was it guile, or a dream ? 
Is it Nye that I doubt ? 
Are things what they seem ? 
Or is visions about ? 
Is our civilization a failure ? 
Or is the Caucasian played out f 



APTEE THE ACCIDENT 
(mouth of the shaft) 

What I want is my husband, sir, 
And if you 're a man, sir, 

You '11 give me an answer, — 
Where is my Joe ? 

Penrhyn, sir, Joe, -^ 

Caernarvonshire. 
Six months ago 

Since we came here — 
Eh ? — Ah, you know ! 

Well, I am quiet 

And still, 
But I must stand here, 

And will ! 
Please, I '11 be strong, 

If you '11 just let me wait 

Inside o' that gate 
Till the news comes along. 

" Negligence ! " — 
That was the cause ! — 

Butchery ! 
Are there no laws, — 

Laws to protect such as we ? 

Well, then ! 

I won't raise my voice. 



AFTER THE ACCIDENT 169 

There, men ! 

I won't make no noise, 
Only you just let me be. 

Four, only four — did he say — 
Saved ! and the other ones ? — Eh ? 

Why do they call ? 

Why are they all 
Looking and coming this way ? 

What 's that ? — a message ? 

I '11 take it. 
I know his wife, sir, 

I '11 break it. 

" Foreman ! '* 

Ay, ay ! 

" Out by and by, — 

Just saved his life. 

Say to his wife 

Soon he '11 be free." 
Will I ? — God bless you \ 

It 's me ! 



THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 

Why, as to that, said the engineer, 
Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear ; 
Spirits don't fool with levers much, 
And throttle- valves don't take to such ; 

And as for Jim, 

What happened to him 
Was one half fact, and t' other half whim ! 

Running one night on the line, he saw 
A house — as plain as the moral law — 
Just by the moonlit bank, ^nd thence 
Came a drunken man with no more sense 

Than to drop on the rail 

Flat as a flail. 
As Jim drove by with the midnight mail. 

Down went the patents — steam reversed. 
Too late ! for there came a " thud." Jim cursed 
As the fireman, there in the cab with him, 
Kinder stared in the face of Jim, 

And says, "What now ? " 

Says Jim, " Wliat now ! 
I Ve just run over a man, — that 's how ! " 

The fireman stared at Jim. They ran 

Back, but they never found house nor man^ — 

Nary a shadow within a mile. 

Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile. 



THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 171 

Then on he tore 
Ten mile or more, 
In quicker time than he 'd made afore. 

Would you believe it ! the very next night 
Up rose that house in the moonlight white, 
Out comes the chap and drops as before, 
Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; 

And so, in fact. 

Each night that act 
Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked. 

Humph ! let me see ; it 's a year now, 'most, 
That I met Jim, East, and says, " How 's your ghost ? " 
**Gone," says Jim ; " and more, it 's plain 
That ghost don't trouble me again. 

I thought I shook 

That ghost when I took 
A place on an Eastern line, — but look ! 

*' What should I meet, the first trip out, 
But the very house we talked about, 
And the selfsame man ! * Well,' says I, ' I guess 
It 's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' 
So I crammed on steam. 
When there came a scream 
From my fireman, that jest broke my dream : 

*' * You 've killed somebody ! ' Says I, * Not much ! 
I've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, 
And now I '11 prove it ! ' Back we ran, 
And — darn my skin ! — but thar was a man 

On the rail, dead. 

Smashed in the head ! — 
Now I call that meanness ! " That 's all Jim said. 



« SEVENTY-NINE " 

(mr. interviewer interviewed) 

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old 

smarty ? 
Oh, I mean you^ old figger-head, — just the same party ! 
Take out your pensivil, d — n you ; sharpen it, do ! 
Any complaints to make ? Lots of 'em — one of 'em 's you. 

You ! who are youj anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin* 

way ? 
Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say ? 
Look at it ; don't it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d— d 

to you, do ! 
But if I had you this side o' that gratin,' I 'd just make it 

lively for you. 

How did I get in here ? Well what 'ud you give to 

know ? 
'T was n't by sneakin' round where I had n't no call to go ; 
'T was n't by hangin' round a-spyin' unfortnet men. 
Grin ! but I '11 stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. 

Why don't you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind 

if you dare. 
Ain't I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. 
Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? Oh, guard ! her* 's 

a little swell 
A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to 

tell. 



SEVENTY-NINE 173 

There ! I thought that 'ud fetch ye ! And you want to know 
my name ? 

" Seventy-nine " they call me, but that is their little game ; 

For I ^m werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- 
stand. 

And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in 
the land. 



For 't was all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like 

me ; 
''"md the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they 

could n't agree ; 
V.nd I sed to the judge, sez I, — Oh, grin ! it 's all right, 

my son ! 
But you 're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be 

played upon ! 

Wot 's that you got ? — tobacco ? I 'm cussed but I 

thought 'twas a tract. 
Thank ye ! A chap t' other day — now, lookee, this is a 

fact — 
Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company. 
As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along o' we. 

No, I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that 

chap, — 
Him standin' over there, a-hidin' his eyes in his cap ? 
Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the 

pris'n fare ; 
For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain't 

nowhere. 

Perhaps it 's his bringin' up ; but he 's sickenin' day by 

day. 
And he does n't take no food, and T 'm seein' him waste 

away. 



174 IN DIALECT 

And it is n't the thing to see ; for, whatever he 's been and 

done, 
Starvation is n't the plan as he 's to be saved upon. 

For he cannot rough it like me ; and he has n't the stamps, 

I guess, 
To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess. 
And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I 've been sorter 

free. 
Would — thank you ! But, say ! look here ! Oh, blast 

it ! don't give it to me ! 

Don't you give it to me ; now, don't ye, don't ye, donH / 
You think it 's a put-up job ; so I '11 thank ye, sir, if you 

won't. 
But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he is n't even my 

pal; 
And, if it 's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he 

shall. 



THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY 

It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his hack to 

the wheelers, 
Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tohacco ; 
While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the 

moonlight, 
We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco 

descending. 

" Danger ! Sir, I believe you, — indeed, I may say, on 

that subject, 
You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a 

wager. 
I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure 

you: 
Hl was only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in 

yon wagon. 

" It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the 

summit : 
Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the 

heavens. 
Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent 

flying 
Over the precipice side, — a thousand feet plumb to the 

bottom. 

" Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- 
ing, 

Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the 
canon : 



176 IN DIALECT 

Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind 

me. 
The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, 

and following. 

"One glance alone I gave, th^n gathered together my rib- 
bons, 

Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks 
of my cattle ; 

Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my 
frenzy. 

While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 

** Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous 
rattle : 

Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the 
darkness. 

Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- 
tum, 

Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 

" As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on 

the mountain. 
Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far 

leaping. 
So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and 

before it 
Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the 

danger impending. 

" But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the 

level. 
Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my 

statement, 



THE stage-driver's STORY 177 

A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance 

may be, 
We traveled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the 

station. 

" Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from 

the ruins, 
I heard a noise up the grade ; and looking, I saw in the 

distance 
The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon 

whirling, 
Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side 

of the station. 

" This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. 
Much more, perchance, might be said — but I hold him of 

all men most lightly 
Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you — 

Well, since you are pressing, 
Perhaps I don't care if I do : you may give me the same, 

Jim, — no sugar." 



A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE 

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES 

It was Andrew Jackson Sutter who, despising Mr. Cutter 

for remarks he heard him utter in debate upon the 

floor, 
Swung him up into the skylight, in the peaceful, pensive 

twilight, and then keerlessly proceeded, makin' no 

account what we did — 
To wipe up with his person casual dust upon the floor. 

Now a square fight never frets me, nor unpleasantness up- 
sets me, but the simple thing that gets me — now 
the job is done and gone. 

And we 've come home free and merry from the peaceful 
cemetery, leavin' Cutter there with Sutter — that 
mebbee just a stutter 

On the part of Mr. Cutter caused the loss we deeply mourn. 

Some bashful hesitation, just like spellin' punctooation — 
might have worked an aggravation on to Sutter's 
mournful mind, 

For the witnesses all vary ez to wot was said and nary a 
galoot will toot his horn except the way he is in- 
clined. 

But they all allow that Sutter had begun a kind of mutter, 

when uprose Mr. Cutter with a sickening kind of 

ease, 
And proceeded then to wade in to the subject then pre- 

vadin' : "Is Profanity degradin' ? " in words like 

unto these : 



A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE 179 

'* Onlike the previous speaker, Mr. Sutter of Yreka, he was 

but a humble seeker — and not like him — a 

cuss " 

it was here that Mr. Sutter softly reached for Mr. Cutter, 

when the latter with a stutter said : " ac-customed 

to discuss.^' 

Then Sutter he rose grimly, and sorter smilin' dimly bowed 
onto the Chairman primly — (just like Cutter ez 
could be !) 

Drawled " he guessed he must fall — back — as — Mr. 
Cutter owned the pack — as — he just had played 
the — Jack — as — " (here Cutter's gun went crack ! 
as Mr. Sutter gasped and ended) " every man can 
see ! " 

But William Henry Pry or — just in range of Sutter's fire 
— here evinced a wild desire to do somebody harm, 

And in the general scrimmage no one thought if Sutter's 
" image " was a misplaced punctooation — like the 
hole in Pryor's arm. 

For we all waltzed in together, never carin' to ask whether 
it was Sutter or was Cutter we woz tryin' to abate. 

But we could n't help perceivin', when we took to inkstand 
heavin', that the process was relievin' to the sharp- 
ness of debate. 

So we 've come home free and merry from the peaceful 

cemetery, and I make no commentary on these simple 

childish games ; 
l?hings is various and human — and the man ain't born of 

woman who is free to intermeddle with his pal's 

intents and aims. 



THE THOUOHT-READER OF ANGELS 

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMBS 

We hev tumbled ez dust 

Or ez worms of the yearth ; 
Wot we looked for hez bust ! 
We are objects of mirth ! 
They have played us — old Pards of the riy^t ! — they hev 
played us for all we was worth ! 

Was it euchre or draw 

Cut us off in our bloom ? 
Was it faro, whose law 
Is uncertain ez doom ? 
Or an innocent " Jack pot " that — openeii - — was to us ei 
the jaws of the tomb ? 

It was nary ! It kem 

With some sharps from the States^. 
Ez folks sez, " All things kem 
To the fellers ez waits ; " 
And we 'd waited six months for that suthin' — had m**. mi4 
Bill Nye — in such straits ! 

And it kem. It was small ; 

It was dream-like and weak ; 

It wore store clothes — that 's all 

That we knew, so to speak ; 

But it called itself " Billson, Thought-Eeader " — which 

ain't half a name for its cheek ! 



THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS 181 

He could read wot you thought, 

And he knew wot you did ; 
He could find things untaught, 
No matter whar hid ; 
And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the 
hand like a kid ! 

Then I glanced at Bill Nye, 
And I sez, without pride, 
" You '11 excuse us. We 've nigh 
On to nothin' to hide ; 
But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we '11 hide it whar 
folks shall decide.'' 

It was Billson's own self 

Who forked over the gold. 
With a smile. " Thar 's the pelf," 
He remarked. " I make bold 
To advance it, and go twenty better that I '11 find it with- 
out being told." 

Then I passed it to Nye, 
Who repassed it to me. 
And we bandaged each eye 
Of that Billson — ez we 
Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull 
crowd around us could see. 

That was all. He 'd one hand 

Locked in mine. Then he groped. 
We could not understand 
Why that minit Nye sloped. 
For we knew we 'd the dead thing on Billson — even more 
than we dreamed of or hoped. 



182 IN DIALECT 

For he stood thar in doubt 

With h's hand to his head ; 
Then he turned, and lit out 

Through the door where Nye fled, 
Draggin' me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we 
thought we was dead, 

Till he overtook Nye 

And went through him. Words fail 
For what follers ! Kin I 
Paint our agonized wail 
Ez he drew from Nye's pocket that twenty wot we'd 
sworn was in his own coat-tail ! 

And it was ! But, when found, 

It proved bogus and brass ! 
And the question goes round 
How the thing kem to pass ? 
Or, ii passed, woz it passed thar by William ; and I listens, 
and echoes " Alas ! 

"For the days when the skill 
Of the keerds was no blind, 
When no effort of will 

Could beat four of a kind, 
When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was 
worth more than the thing in your mind." 



THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 
(reported by truthful james) 

Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my 

knee, 
And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn 

from me. 
I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinnys ^ fierce and wild, 
For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child ; 
But as from school yer driftin' by, I thowt ye'd like to 

hear 
Of a " Spelling Bee ^' at Angels that we organized last year. 

It warn't made up of gentle kids, of pretty kids, like you, 

But gents ez hed their reg'lar growth, and some enough for 
two. 

There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter's Fork and Bilson of La- 
grange, 

And " Pistol Bob," who wore that day a knife by way of 
change. 

You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty 
names. 

But each had a man behind it, and — my name is Truthful 
James. 

There was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat, and Smith of 

Shooter's Bend, 
And Brown of Calaveras — which I want no better friend ; 
Three- fingered Jack — yes, pretty dears, three fingers — • 

you have five. 

1 Qy Genii. 



184 IN DIALECT 

Clapp cut off two — it 's singular, too. that Clapp ain't now 

alive. 
'T was very wrong indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much 

to blame ; 
Likewise was Jack, in after-years, for shootin' of that sam.e. 

The nights was kinder lengthening out, the rains had jest 

begun, 
When all the camp came up to Pete's to have their usual 

fun; 
But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove 
Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove : 
" Thar 's a new game down in Frisco, that ez far ez I can 

see 
Beats euchre, poker, and van-toon, they calls the ^ Spellin' 

Bee.' " 

Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and 

spake, 
'* Poker is good enough for me," and Lanky Jim sez, 

" Shake ! " 
And Bob allowed he warn't proud, but he " must say right 

thar 
That the man who tackled euchre hed his education squar." 
This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the schoolmaster, who 

said 
He knew the game, and he would give instructions on that 

head. 

"For instance, take some simple word," sez he, "like 

' separate : ' 
Kow who can spell it ? " Dog my skin, ef thar was one in 

eight. 
This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in 

row. 



THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 185 

And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe, 
And high upon the bar itself the schoolmaster was raised, 
And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent 
gazed. 

The first word out was " parallel,'' and seven let it be, 
Till Joe waltzed in his " double 1 " betwixt the " a " and 

*^ J 
For since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto's fight 

Thar warn't no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that 

night — 
Till " rhythm " came ! He tried to smile, then said ^Hhey 

had him there," 
And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his 

chair, 

O little kids, my pretty kids, 't was touchin' to survey 
These bearded men, with weppings on, like schoolboys at 

their play. 
They 'd laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead 

the van. 
And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan. 
Till the Chair gave out " incinerate," and Brown said he 'd 

be durned 
If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned. 

When " phthisis " came they all sprang up, and vowed the 

man who rung 
Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung. 
As they sat down again I saw in Bilson's eye a flash. 
And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin' his mustache. 
And when at last Brown slipped on " gneiss," and Bilson 

took his chair. 
He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed 

their hair. 



186 IN DIALECT 

And then the Chair gr^w very white, and the Chair said 

he 'd adjourn, 
But Poker Dick remarked that he would wait and get his 

turn ; 
Then with a tremblin* voice and hand, and with a wanderin' 

eye, 

The Chair next offered " eider-duck," and Dick began with 
a T ?' 

And Bilson smiled — then Bilson shrieked ! Just how the 

fight begun 
I never knowed, for Bilson dropped, and Dick, he moved 

up one. 

Then certain gents arose and said " they 'd business down 

in camp,'' 
And " ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was 

damp. 
They 'd '' — here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked 

the door and yelled : 
" No, not one mother's son goes out till that thar word is 

spelled ! " 
But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank 

in pain. 
And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his 

brain. 

Below the bar dodged Poker Dick, and tried to look ez he 
Was huntin' up authorities thet no one else could see ; 
And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin' he " was 

cold," 
Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled, 
And several gents called " Order ! " till in his simple way 
Poor Smith began with " O-r " — " Or " — and he was 

dragged away. 



THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 187 

little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and 

pray! 
You Ve got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way ; 
And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin" 

square, 
But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or 

care. 
You wants to know the rest, my dears ? Thet 's all ! In 

me you see 
The only gent that lived to tell about the Spellin' Bee ! 



He ceased and passed, that truthful man ; the children went 
their way 

With downcast heads and downcast hearts — but not to 
sport or playo 

For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed 

r,a(;b child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all un- 
said. 

No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their 
youthful frames. 

As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of 
Truthful James. 



AETEMIS m SIEERA 

DKAMATIS PERSONS 
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa 

POET 

Halt ! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle 
Just where you stand ; then doff your hat, and swear 

Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle 
Half as complete or as marvelously fair. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe, 
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky ! 

He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp, — he 
Here might recall them — six thousand feet on high ! 

POET 

Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, 
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife, 

Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, 
But never climb to this purer, higher life ! 

Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, 

Simple and meek as his flocks we 're looking at, 

Tends his soft charge ; nor where his daughter Rosa — 
{A shot.) 
Hallo! What's that? 

PHILOSOPHER 

A — something thro' my hat — 
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter ? 



ARTEMIS IN SIERRA 189 

POET 
Yes ; but — your hat you were moving through the leaves ; 

Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter. 
Lightly he shoots — (A second shot.) 

PHILOSOPHER 

As one readily perceives. 
Still, he improves ! This time your hat has got it, 
Quite near the band ! Eh ? Oh, just as you please — 
Stop, or go on. 

POET 

Perhaps we 'd better trot it 
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees. 

BOTH 

Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow; 
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Thanks, that is better ; now of this shot-dispensing 
Jones and his girl — you were saying — 

POET 

Well, you see — > 
I — hang it all ! — Oh ! what 's the use of fencing ! 
Sir, I confess it ! — these shots were meant for me, 

PHILOSOPHER 

^ou ! are you mad ! 

POET 

God knows, I should n^t wonder ! 
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly — as yon peak 



190 IN DIALECT 

Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder — 
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak. 

Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding, 

Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy ; 

Slips her disdain — as an avalanche down gliding ' 

Sweeps flocks and kin away — to clear a path for me. 

Hence his attack. 

PHILOSOPHER 

I see. What I admire 
Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak, 
Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire, — 
Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek ! 

Still, I might mention, i 've met the gentle Kosa, — 
Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread ; 

And, it is possible, she 's happened to disclose a — 
Ahem ! You can fancy why he shoots at me instead. 

POET 

You? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver: 
I am not choleric — but accidents may chance. 
And here 's the father, who alone can be the solver 
Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance. 
Enter Jones of Mariposa. 

POET 
Speak, shepherd — mine I 

PHILOSOPHER 

Hail ! Time-and-cartridge waster. 
Aimless exploder of theories and skill ! 
Wliom do you shqot ? 



ARTEMIS IN SIERRA 191 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 

Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or 
Ef I shoot anything — I only shoot to kill. 

That ain't what 's up. I only kem to tell ye — 

Sportin' or courtin' — trot homeward for your life I 

Gals will be gals, and p'r'aps it 's just ez well ye 
Larned there was one had no wish to be — a wife. 

POET 

What ? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Is this true ? 

' JONES OF MARIPOSA 

I reckon it looks like it. 
She saw ye comin'. My gun was standin' by \ 
She made a grab, and 'fore I up could strike it, 
Blazed at ye both ! The critter is so shy ! 

POET 

Who ? 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 



My darter ! 



PHILOSOPHER 

Kosa? 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 

Same ! Good-by ! 



JACK OF THE TULES 

(southern California) 

Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy 
You are no novice. Confess that to little 
Of my poor gossip of Mission and Pueblo 
You are a stranger ! 

Am I not right ? Ah ! believe me, that ever 
Since we joined company at the posada 
T Ve watched you closely, and — pardon an old priest ■ 
I 've caught you smiling ! 

Smiling to hear an old fellow like me talk 
Gossip of pillage and robbers, and even 
Air his opinion of law and alcaldes 
Like any other ! 

TTow ! — by that twist of the wrist on the bridle. 
By that straight line from the heel to the shoulder, 
By that curt speech, — nay ! nay ! no offense, son, — 
You are a soldier ? 

No ? Then a man of affairs ? San Sebastian ! 
'T would serve me right if I prattled thus wildly 
To — say a sheriff ? No ? — just caballero ? 
Well, more 's the pity. 

Ah ! what we want here 's a man of your presence ; 
Sanoj SecretOf — yes, all the four S's, 



JACK OF THE TULES 193 

Joined with d boldness and dash, when the time comes. 
And — may I say it ? — 

One not too hard on the poor country people, 
Peons and silly vaqueros, who, dazzled 
By reckless skill, and, perchance, reckless largesse, 
Wink at some queer things. 

No ? You would crush them as well as the robbers, — 
Koot them out, scatter them ? Ah ! you are bitter — 
And yet — quien sabe, perhaps that 's the one way 
To catch their leader. 

As to myself, now, I 'd share your displeasure ; 
For I admit in this Jack of the Tules 
Certain good points. He still comes to confession — 
You'd "like to catch him" ? 

Ah, if you did at such times, you might lead him 
Home by a thread. Good ! Again you are smiling s 
You have no faith in such shrift, and but little 
In priest or penitent. 

Bueno ! We take no offense, sir ; whatever 
It please you to say, it becomes us, for Church sake, 
To bear in peace. Yet, if you were kinder — 
And less suspicious — 

I might still prove to you. Jack of the Tules 
Shames not our teaching ; nay, even might show youp 
Hard by this spot, his old comrade, who, wounded, 
Lives on his bounty. 

If — ah, you listen ! — I see I can trust you ; 
Then, on your word as a gentleman — follow. 



194 IN DIALECT 

Under that sycamore stands the old cabin | 
There sits his comrade. 

Eh ! — are you mad ? You would try to arrest him ? 
You, with a warrant ? Oh, well, take the rest of them : 
Pedro, Bill, Murray, Pat Doolan. Hey ! — all of you. 
Tumble out, d n it ! 

There ! — that '11 do, boys ! Stand back ! Ease hia 

elbows ; 
Take the gag from his mouth. Good ! Now scatter like 

devils 
After his posse — four straggling, four drunken ■— 
At the posada. 

You _— help me off with these togs, and then vamos ! 
Now, ole Jeff Dobbs ! — Sheriff, Scout, and Detective ! • 
You 're so derned 'cute ! Kinder sick, ain't ye, bluffing 
Jack of the Tules ! 



IV. MISCELLANEOUS 
A GEEYPOET LEGEND 

(1797) 

They ran through the streets of the seaport towiij 
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay | 
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
Was never as cold or white as they. 

" Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden I 
Eun for your shallops, gather your men, 
Scatter your boats on the lower bay.'' 

Good cause for fear ! In the thick mid-day 

The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 

Filled with the children in happy play, 

Parted its moorings and drifted clear. 

Drifted clear beyond reach or call, — - 
Thirteen children they were in all, — 
All adrift in the lower bay ! 

Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! 

She will not float till the turning tide ! '' 

Said his wife, " My darling will hear my call, 

"Whether in sea or heaven she bide ; " 

And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry. 

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side^ 



196 MISCELLANEOUS 

The fog drove down on each laboring crew, 
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 
And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O'er leagues of clover and cold grav stone, 
But not from the lips that nad gone before. 

They came no more. But they tell the tale 
That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, 
The mackerel fishers shorten sail — 
For the signal they know will bring relief ; 
For the voices of children, still at play 
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 

Through channels whose waters never faiL 

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 

A theme for a poet's idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of Doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 
We hear from the misty troubled shore 
The voice of the children gone before, 
Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 



A ISnSWPORT EOMAHsTCE 

They say that she died of a broken heart 
(I tell the tale as 't was told to me) ; 

But her spirit lives, and her soul is part 
Of this sad old house by the sea. 

Her lover was fickle and fine and French : 

It was nearly a hundred years ago 
When he sailed away from her arms — poor wench ! 

With the Admiral Kochambeau. 

I marvel much what periwigged phrase 
Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, 

At what gold-laced speech of those modish days 
She listened — the mischief take her ! 

But she kept the posies of mignonette 

That he gave ; and ever as their bloom failed 

And faded (though with her tears still wet) 
Her youth with their own exhaled. 

Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud 
Kound spar and spire and tarn and tree, 

Her soul went up on that lifted cloud 
From this sad old house by the sea. 

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, 
She walks unbidden from room to room, 

And the air is filled that she passes through 
With a subtle, sad perfume. 



198 MISCELLANEOUS 

The delicate odor of mignonette, 

The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet^ 

Is all that tells of her story ; yet 
Could she think of a sweeter way ? 

• ••••••a 

I sit in the sad old house to-night, — 

Myself a ghost from a farther sea ; 
And I trust that this Quaker woman might. 

In courtesy^ visit me. 

For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, 
And the bugle died from the fort on the hiH, 

And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, 
And the grand piano is still. 

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two 5 
And there is no sound in the sad old house. 

But the long veranda dripping with dew, 
And in the wainscot a mouse. 

The light of my study-lamp streams out 
Erom the library door, but has gone astray 

In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt 
But the Quakeress knows the way. 

Was it the trick of a sense overwrought 
With outward watching and inward fret ? 

But I swear that the air just now was fraught 
With the odor of mignonette ! 

I open the window, and seem almost — 
So still lies the ocean — to hear the beat 

Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, 
And to bask in its tropic heat. 



A NEWPORT ROMANCE 199 

In my neighbor's windows the gas-lights flare, 
As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss j 

And I wonder now could I fit that air 
To the song of this sad old house. 

And no odor of mignonette there is, 

But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn ; 

And mayhap from causes as slight as this 
The quaint old legend is born. 

But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, 
As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast 

The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, 
Awakens my buried past. 

And I think of the passion that shook my youthj 

Of its aimless loves and its idle pains. 
And am thankful now for the certain truth 

That only the sweet remains. 

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade. 

And I see no face at my library door ; 
For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, 

She is viewless for evermore. 

But whether she came as a faint perfume, 

Or whether a spirit in stole of white, 
I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, 

She has been with my soul to-night I 



SAJSr FEANCISCO 

(from the sea) 

Serene, indifferent of Fate, 
Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; 

Upon thy height, so lately won, 
Still slant the banners of the sun ; 

Thou seest the white seas strike their tentSp 
O Warder of two continents ! 

And, scornful of the peace that flies 
Thy angry winds and sullen skies, 

Thou drawest all things, small or great, 
To thee, beside the Western Gate. 

lion's whelp, that hidest fast 

In jungle growth of spire and mast I 

1 know thy cunning and thy greed, 
Thy hard high lust and willful deed, 

And all thy glory loves to tell 
Of specious gifts material. 

Drop down, Fleecy Fog, and hide 
Her skeptic sneer and all her pride ! 



SAN FRANCISCO 201 

Wrap her, Fog, in gown and hood 
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. 

Hide me her faults, her sin and hlame ; 
With thy gray mantle cloak her shame ! 

So shall she, cowled, sit and pray 
Till morning hears her sins away. 

Then rise, Fleecy Fog, and raise 
The glory of her coming days ; 

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas 
Above her smoky argosies ; 

When forms familiar shall give place 
To stranger speech and newer face; 

When all her throes and anxious fears 
Lie hushed in the repose of years ; 

When Art shall raise and Culture lift 
The sensual joys and meaner thrift, 

And all fulfilled the vision we 

Who watch and wait shall never see ; 

Who, in the morning of her race, 
Toiled fair or meanly in our place, 

But, yielding to the common lot, 
Lie unrecorded and forgot. 



THE MOUNTAIN HEAET^S-EASE 

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, 

By furrowed glade and dell, 
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, 

Thou stayest them to tell 

The delicate thought that cannot find expression, 

For ruder speech too fair, 
That, like thy petals, trembles in possession. 

And scatters on the air. 

The miner pauses in his rugged labor, 

And, leaning on his spade, 
Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor 

To see thy charms displayed. 

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises. 

And for a moment clear 
Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises, 

And passes in a tear, — 

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 

Gf uneventful toil, 
"Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 

Above a peaceful soil. 

One moment only ; for the pick, uplifting, 

Through root and fibre cleaves. 
And on the muddy current slowly drifting 

Are swept by bruised leaves. 



THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE 203 

And yet, poet, in thy homely fashion. 

Thy work thou dost fulfill. 
For on the turhid current of his passion 

Thy face is shining still 1 



GRIZZLY. 

Coward, — of heroic size, 
In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise | 
Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 
Robber, — vrhose exploits ne'er soarefi 
O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard ; 
Whiskered chin and feeble nose, 
Claws of steel on baby toes, — 
Here, in solitude and shade, 
Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 
Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed. 
Let thy rude, half-human tread 

Point to hidden Indian springs, 
Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 

Hovered o'er by timid wings, 
Where the wood-duek lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets, — » 
Epicurean retreats. 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 
In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer. 
From the pilgrim taking toll ; 

Match thy cunning with his fear ; 
Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 
Yet remain an outlaw still ! 



MADEONO 

Captain of the Western wood, 
Thou that apest Kobin Hood ! 
Green above thy scarlet hose, 
How thy velvet mantle shows! 
Never tree like thee arrayed, 
O thou gallant of the glade ! 

When the fervid August sun 
Scorches all it looks upon, 
And the balsam of the pine 
Drips from stem to needle fine. 
Bound thy compact shade arranged, 
Not a leaf of thee is changed ! 

When the yellow autumn sun 
Saddens all it looks upon. 
Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
Strews its ashes in the rills, 
Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, 
And in limbs of purest buff 
Challengest the sombre glade 
For a sylvan masquerade. 

Where, oh, where, shall he begin 
Who would paint thee, Harlequin ? 
With thy waxen burnished leaf. 
With thy branches' red relief. 
With thy poly tinted fruit, — 
In thy spring or autumn suit, — 
Where begin, and oh, where end. 
Thou whose charms all art transcend ? 



COYOTE 

Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew, 
Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through; 
Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, 
He limps in the clearing, an outcast in gray. 

A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, 
Kow leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, 
Lop-eared and large- jointed, but ever alway 
A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray. 

Here, Carlo, old fellow, — - he 's one of your kind, — 
Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. 
What ! snarling, my Carlo ! So even dogs may 
Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray. 

Well, take what you will, — though it be on the sly, 
Marauding or begging, — I shall not ask why, 
But will call it a dole, just to help on his way 
A four-footed friar in orders of gray I 



TO A SEA-BIRD 

(sANTA CRUZ, 1869) 

Sauntering hither on listless wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea, 
Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, — » 

Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that 's new ; 

Storms and wrecks are old things to thee 5 
Sick am I of these changes, too ; 
Little to care for, little to rue, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

All of thy wanderings, far and near. 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
All of my journey ings end them here : 
This our tether must be our cheer, — 
I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast. 

Something in common, old friend, have we % 
Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, 
I to the waters look for rest, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 



WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Woman stopped, as her bahe she tossed, 
And thought of the one she had long since lost, 

And said, as her teardrops back she forced, 
"I hate the wind in the chimney.'' 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Children said, as they closer drew, 

" 'T is some witch that is cleaving the black night 
through, 

'T is a fairy trumpet that just then blew, 
And we fear the wind in the chimney." 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, 
Said to himself, " It will surely snow. 

And fuel is dear and wages low. 

And I '11 stop the leak in the chimney." 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

But the Poet listened and smiled, for he 
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three, 

And said, " It is God's own harmony. 
This wind we hear in the chimney." 



DICKENS IN CAMP 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew. 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of " Little Nell." 

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp with " Nell " on English meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 



210 MISCELLANEOUS 

And so in mountain solitudes — overtaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shakea 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire ; 

And he who wrought that spell ? 
Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory 

That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths entwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, 

This spray of Western pine ! 
Julyt 187a 



"TWENTY YEARS" 

Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think 
I was dreaming just now when you spoke. 
The fact is, the musical clink 
Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink 
A chord of my memory woke. 

And I stood in the pasture-field where 
Twenty summers ago I had stood ; 
And I heard in that sound, I declare, 
The clinking of bells in the air, 
Of the cows coming home from the wood. 

Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill ; 
And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance ; 
And the sun behind E,apalye's mill 
Was my uttermost West, and could thrill 
Like some fanciful land of romance. 

Then my friend was a hero, and then 
My girl was an angel. In fine, 
!• drank buttermilk ; for at ten 
Faith asks less to aid her than when 
At thirty we doubt over wine. 

Ah, well, it does seem that I must 

Have been dreaming just now when you spoke^ 

Or lost, very like, in the dust 

Of the years that slow fashioned the crust 

On that bottle whose seal you last broke. 



212 MISCELLANEOUS 

Twenty years was its age, did you say ? 
Twenty years ? Ah, my friend, it is true ! 
All the dreams that have flown since that day, 
All the hopes in that time passed away, 
Old friend, I 've been drinking with you I 



FATE 

**The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 
The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

^^ The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb ; 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day.'* 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
And the hunters came from the chase in glee | 
And the town that was builded upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 



GEANDMOTHER TENTERDEN 

(MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 1800) 

I MIND it was but yesterday : 
The sun was dim, the air was chill ; 
Below the town, below the hill, 
The sails of my son's ship did fill, — 

My Jacob, who was cast away. 

He said, " God keep you, mother dear,-*^ 
But did not turn to kiss his wife ; 
They had some foolish, idle strife ; 
Her tongue v/as like a two-edged Knite, 

And he was proud as any peer. 

Howbeit that night I took no note 
Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; 
I marked not that the hills looked near, 
Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, 

Through curd-like scud did drive and floatc 

For with my darling went the joy 
Of autumn woods and meadows brown ; 
I came to hate the little town ; 
It seemed as if the sun went down 

With him, my only darling boy. 

It was the middle of the night : 
The wind, it shifted west-by -south, — 
It piled high up the harbor mouth ; 



GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN 215 

The marshes, black with summer drouth, 
Were all abroad with sea-foam white* 

It was the middle of the night : 
The sea upon the garden leapt, 
And my son's wife in quiet slept. 
And I, his mother, waked and wept. 

When lo ! there came a sudden light. 

And there he stood ! His seaman's dress 
All wet and dripping seemed to be ; 
The pale blue fires of the sea 
Dripped from his garments constantly, — 

I could not speak through cowardness. 

" I come through night and storm," he said, 
^^ Through storm and night and death," said he, 
" To kiss my wife, if it so be 
That strife still holds Hwixt her and me, 

For all beyond is peace," he said. 

^* The sea is His, and He who sent 
The wind and wave can soothe their strife ; 
And brief and foolish is our life." 
He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife. 

Then sighed, and like a dream he went. 

Now, when my darling kissed not me, 
But her — his wife — who did not wake, 
My heart within me seemed to break ; 
I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake 

Of what my clearer eyes did see. 

And when the slow weeks brought him not, 
Somehow we spake of aught beside : 



816 MISCELLANEOUS 

I'or she — her hope upheld her pride j 
Aiid I — in me all hope had died, 
And my son passed as if forgot. 

It was ahout the next springtide : 
She pined and faded where she stood, 
Yet spake no word of ill or good ; 
She had the hard, cold Edwards' blood 

In all her veins — and so she died. 

One time I thought, before she passed, 
To give her peace ; but ere I spake 
Methought, " ITe will be first to break 
The news in heaven,'' and for his sake 

I held mine back until the last. 

And here I sit, nor care to roam ; 
I only wait to hear his call. 
I doubt not that this day next fall 
Shall see me safe in port, where all 

And every ship at last comes home. 

And you have sailed the Spanish Main, 
And knew my Jacob ? . . . Eh ! Mercy ! 
Ah ! God of wisdom ! hath the sea 
Yielded its dead to humble me ? 

My boy ! . . . My Jacob ! . . . Turn again I 



GUILD'S SIGNAL 

[William Guild was engineer of the train which on the l9tli of April, 
1873, plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and 
Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, 
to whistle an " All 's well " to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, 
dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.] 

Two low whistles, quaint and clear : 
That was the signal the engineer — 

That was the signal that Guild, 't is said — 
Gave to his wife at Providence, 
As through the sleeping town, and thence, 
Out in the night. 
On to the light, 
Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! 

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt, 
Yet to the woman looking out. 

Watching and waiting, no serenade, 
Love-song, or midnight roundelay 
Said what that whistle seemed to say : 
" To my trust true. 
So, love, to you ! 
Working or waiting, good-night ! " it said. 

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine. 
Old commuters along the line, 

Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, 
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense. 
Pierced through the shadows of Providence ; 
" Nothing amiss — 
Nothing ! — it is 
Only Guild calling his wife," they said. 



218 MISCELLANEOUS 

Summer and winter the old refrain 
Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain, 

Pierced through the budding boughs overhead, 
Flew down the -track when the red leaves burned 
Like living coals from the engine spurned i 
Sang as it flew, 
" To our trust true. 
First of all, duty. Good-night ! " it said. 

And then, one night, it was heard no more 
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore. 

And the folk in Providence smiled and said 
As they turned in their beds, " The engineer 
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer." 
One only knew, 
To his trust true. 
Guild lay under his engine, dead. 



ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 

(a chemical narrative) 

Certain facts which serve to explain 
The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, 
Who, as the common reports obtain, 
Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ; 
With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose ; 
A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves 
In a milliner's window, and partially solves 
That question which mentor and moralist pains, 
If grace may exist minus feeling or brains. 

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, 

All that she wanted, — what girl could ask more ? 

Lovers that sighed and lovers that swore. 

Lovers that danced and lovers that played. 

Men of profession, of leisure, and trade ; 

But one, who was destined to take the high part 

Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart, — 

This lover, the wonder and envy of town. 

Was a practicing chemist, a fellow called Brown. 

I might here remark that 't was doubted by many. 
In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any ; 
But no one could look in that eloquent face. 
With its exquisite outline and features of grace, 
And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide 
Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride, — 
None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation 
As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation 



220 MISCELLANEOUS 

That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, 
And as far as complexion went she had a heart. 

But this 'par parenthesis. Brown was the man 

Preferred of all others to carry her fan, 

Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle 

May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. 

Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown — = 

Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, 

111 dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop — 

Should appear as her escort at party or hop. 

Some swore he had cooked up some villainous charm, 

Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- 

Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense. 

Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense \ 

Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie 

In a magical wash or indelible dye ; • 

While Society, with its censorious eye 

And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn 

What was n't improper as being a sham. 

For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog 
With a party, the finest the season had seen, 
To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, 
Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. 
The guests were invited ; but one night before 
A. carriage drew up at the modest back door 
Of Brown's lab'ratory, and, full in the glare 
Of a big purple bottle, some closely veiled fair 
Alighted and entered : to make matters plain, 
Spite of veils and disguises, 't was Addie De Laine<. 

As a bower for true love, 't was hardly the one 
That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won t 
No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh 



ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 221 

Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, 
Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme ; 
But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, 
And salts, which your chemist delights to explain 
As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. 
Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness ! and know 
What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. 

I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss. 

Which of course duly followed a meeting like this, 

And come down to business, — for such the intent 

Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant. 

In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime. 

Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime, — 

And give but her words, as she coyly looked down 

In reply to the questioning glances of Brown : 

*' I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, 

And the little white powders that had a sweet taste. 

Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye. 

And the depilatory, and also the dye, 

A.nd I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear 

Brown, 
I have one other favor, — now, ducky, don't frown, — 
Only one, for a chemist and genius like you 
But a trifle, and one you can easily do. 
Now listen : to-morrow, you know, is the night 
Of the birthday soiree of that Polly wog fright ; 
And I 'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear 
Is too lovely ; but " — " But what then, ma chere ? " 
Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop. 
And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. 
"Well, I want — I want something to fill out the skirt 
To the proper dimensions, without being girt 
In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop 
That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop ; 



222 MISCELLAI^fEOUS 

Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk. 

With a freedom that none but you masculine folk 

Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, 

She 's always bound down to the earth by these wires. 

Are you listening ? Nonsense ! don't stare like a spooiiT 

Idiotic ; some light thing, and spacious, and soon — 

Something like — well, in fact — something like a balloon ! " 

Here she paused ; and here Brown, overcome by surprise. 
Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, 
And the lady departed. But just at the door 
Something happened, — 't is true, it had happened before 
In this sanctum of science, — a sibilant sound, 
Like some element just from its trammels unbound, 
Or two substances that their affinities found. 

The night of the anxiously looked for soiree 

Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array ; 

With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, 

And the " How do ye do's " and the " Hope you are welPs ;" 

And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look 

You give as you hang your best hat on the hook ; 

The rush of hot air as the door opens wide ; 

And your entry, — that blending of self-possessed prid» 

And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare 

At the folk, as if wondering how they got there j 

With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. 

Meanwhile, the safe topic, the heat of the room, 

Already was losing its freshness and bloom ; 

Young people were yawning, and wondering when 

The dance would come off, and why did n't it then : 

When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, 

Lo ! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud ! 

And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, 

The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. 



ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 223 

She entered ; but oh ! how imperfect the verb 

To express to the senses her movement superb ! 

To say that she " sailed in " more clearly might tell 

Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. 

Her robe was a vague circumambient space, 

With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace ; 

The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy 

The power of critical feminine eye 

To define or describe : H were as futile to try 

The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, 

Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. 

'Midst the humming of praises and glances of beaux 

That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, 

Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, 

With a look of anxiety, close in her track. 

Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear 

A sentence of warning, — it might be of fear : 

" Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." 

(Nothing more, — such advice might be given youi 

wife 
Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, 
Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scofif.) 
But hark to the music ; the dance has begun. 
The closely draped windows wide open are flung; 
The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light. 
Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. 
Round about go the dancers ; in circles they fly ; 
Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by ; 
And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain. 
Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. 
Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined 
For the vigor and ease that her movements combined ; 
E'en Bigelboche never flung higher her robe 
In the naughtiest city that 's known on the globe. 



224 MISCELLANEOUS 

'T was amazing, ^t was scandalous ; lost in surprise, 
Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. 

But hark ! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, 
Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse 
Which brought her fair form to the window again, 
From the arms of her partner incautiously slips ! 
And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, 
And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn 
Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill 
Into space and the night ; for Miss Addie was gone { 
Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun ; 
Gone like the grain when the reaper is done ; 
Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass ; 
Gone without parting farewell ; and alas ! 
Gone with a flavor of hydrogen gas ! 

When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet 
A white-headed man slowly pacing the street ; 
His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye, 
Half blind with continually scanning the sky. 
Rumor points him as some astronomical sage, 
Re-perusing by day the celestial page ; 
But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, 
Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down^ 
And learn the stern moral this story must teach, 
That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. 



A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 

Above the bones 
St. Ursula owns, 
And those of the virgins she chaperons ; 
Above the boats, 
And the bridge that floats, 
And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats | 
Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, 
Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs ; 
Above Newmarket's open space. 
Above that consecrated place 
Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, 
And the dozen shops of the real Farina ; 
Higher than even old Hohestrasse, 
Whose houses threaten the timid passer, — 
Above them all, 
Through scaffolds tall, 
And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, 
The great Cologne's 
Cathedral stones 
Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters. 

Unfinished there. 

In high mid-air 
The towers halt like a broken prayer ; 

Through years belated, 

Unconsummated, 
The hope of its architect quite frustrated. 

Its very youth 

They say, forsooth, 



226 MISCELLANEOUS 

With a quite improper purpose mated; 

And every stone 

With a curse of its own 
Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated^ 

Since the day its choir, 

Which all admire, 
By Cologne's Archhishop was consecrated. 

Ah ! that was a day. 
One well might say. 
To be marked with the largest, whitest stone 
To be found in the towers of all Cologne ! 
Along the Rhine, 
From old Rheinstein, 
The people flowed like their own good wine. 
From Rudesheim, 
And Geisenheim, 
And every spot that is known to rhyme ; 
From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausenp 
To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, 
And down the track. 
From quaint Schwalbach 
To the clustering tiles of Bacharach; 
From Bingen, hence 
To old Coblentz : 
From every castellated crag. 
Where the robber chieftains kept their " swag,'* 
The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel 
Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal ; 
And pouring in from near and far. 
As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr., 
Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, 
So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel. 
Choked up the city's gates with men 
From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen. 



A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 227 

What had they come to see ? Ah me ! 
I fear no glitter of pageantry, 

Nor sacred zeal 

For Church's weal, 
Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal ; 

Nor childlike trust in frank confession 
Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression; 

Still in each nest 

On every crest 
Kept stolen goods in their possession ; 

But only their gout 

For something new, 
More rare than the '' roast " of a wandering Jew ; 

Or — to be exact — 

To see — in fact — 
A Christian soul, in the very act 
Of being damned, secundum artem, 
By the devil, before a soul could part 'em. 

For a rumor had flown 

Throughout Cologne 
That the church, in fact, was the devil's own ; 

That its architect 

(Being long " suspect ") 
Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked 
Not only his own soul, but had lost 
The very first Christian soul that crossed 
The sacred threshold : and all, in fine, 
For that very beautiful design 

Of the wonderful choir 

They were pleased to admire. 
And really, he must be allowed to say — 
To speak in a purely business way — 
That, taking the ruling market prices 
Of souls and churches, in such a crisis 



228 MISCELLANEOUS 

It would be shown — 
And his Grace must own — 
It was really a hargain for Cologne ! 

Such was the tale 

That turned cheeks pale 
With the thought that the enemy might prevail, 

And the church doors snap 

With a thunderclap 
On a Christian soul in that deviFs trap. 

But a wiser few, 

Who thought that they knew 
Cologne's Archbishop, replied, " Pooh, pooh ! 

Just watch him and wait. 

And as sure as fate, 
You '11 find that the Bishop will give checkmate.'* 

One here might note 

How the popular vote, 
As shown in all legends and anecdote, 

Declares that a breach 

Of trust to o'erreach 
The devil is something quite proper for each. 

And, really, if you 

Give the devil his due 
In spite of the proverb — it 's something you '11 rua 

But to lie and deceive him, 

To use and to leave him., 
From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, 

Though no one has heard 

It ever averred 
That the '' Father of Lies " ever yet broke his word, 

But has left this position, 

In every tradition. 
To be taken alone by the " truth-loving " Christian ! 



A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 229 

Bom ! from the tower ! 

It is the hour ! 
The host pours in, in its pomp and power 

Of banners and pyx, 

And high crucifix, 
And crosiers and other processional sticks, 

And no end of Marys 

In quaint reliquaries, 
To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries ; 

And an Osculum Pacis 

(A myth to the masses 
Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses) — 

All borne by the throng 

Who are marching along 
To the square of the Dom with processional song, 

With the flaring of dips, 

And bending of hips, 
And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips j 

And some good little boys 

Who had come up from jN'euss 
And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice i 

All march to the square 

Of the great Dom, and there 
File right and left, leaving alone and quite bar© 

A covered sedan, 

Containing — so ran 
The rumor — • the victim to take off the ban. 

They have left it alone, 

They have sprinkled each stone 
Of the porch with a sanctified £!au de Cologne^ 

Guaranteed in this case 

To disguise every trace 
Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. 

Two Carmelites stand 

On the right and left hand 



230 MISCELLANEOUS 

Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command 

Of the prelate to throw 

Up the cover and show 
The form of the victim in terror below. 

There 's a pause and a prayer, 

Then the signal, .and there — 
Is a woman ! — by all that is good and is fair ! 

A woman ! and known 

To them all — one must own 
Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown 

As a martyr, or e'en 

As a Christian ! A queen 
Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen ; 

So bad that the worst 

Of Cologne spake up first, 
And declared 't was an outrage to suffer one curst, 

And already a fief 

Of the Satanic chief, 
To martyr herself for the Churches relief. 

But in vain fell their sneer 

On the mob, who I fear 
On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. 

A woman ! and there 

She stands in the glare 
Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare, — 

A woman still young, 
» With garments that clung 

To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung 

With remorse and despair. 

Yet still passing fair, 
With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, 

And cheeks that are faint 

'Neath her dyes and her paint. 
A woman most surely — but hardly a saint ! 



A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 231 

She moves. She has gone 

From their pity and scorn ; 

She has mounted alone 

The first step of stone, 
^And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, 

Then pauses and turns, 

As the altar blaze burns 
On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns 

Archbishop and Prior, 

Knightj ladye, and friar, 
And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. 

" men of Cologne ! 

What I was ye have known ; 
What I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. 

If it be but His will 

I shall pass from Him still. 
Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill ; 

If still by that sign 

Of His anger divine 
One soul shall be saved. He hath blessed more than mine. 

men of Cologne ! 

Stand forth, if ye own 
A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, 

And take ye my place. 

And God give you grace 
To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face ! " 

She paused. Yet aloof 

They all stand. No reproof 
Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. 

One instant — no more — 

She halts at the door, 
Then enters ! . . . A flood from the roof to the floor 

Fills the church rosy red. 

She is gone ! 



232 MISCELLANEOUS 

But instead, 
Who is this leaning forward with glorified head 

And hands stretched to save ? 

Sure this is no slave 
Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so hrave I 

They press to the door, 

But too late ! All is o'er. 
Naught remains hut a woman's form prone on the floor ; 

But they still see a trace 

Of that glow in her face 
That they saw in the light of the altar's high hlaze 

On the image that stands 

With the habe in its hands 
Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. 

A Te Deum sung, 

A censer high swung, 
With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, 

Proclaim that the curse 

Is removed — and no worse 
Is the Dom for the trial — in fact, the reverse ; 

For instead of their losing 

A soul in abusing 
The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. 

Thus the legend is told : 

You will find in the old 
Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold 

In iron and brass. 

In gown and cuirass. 
The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass j 

And high o'er the rest, 

With her babe at her breast. 
The image of Mary Madonna the blest. 



A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 233 

But you look round in vain, 

On each high pictured pane, 

For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. 

Yet, standing to-day 

O'er the dust and the clay, 
'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, 

With the slow-sinking sun 

Looking softly upon 
That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one 

That it does not reveal, 

For I know and I feel 
That these are but shadows — the woman was real 1 



THE TALE OF A PONY 

Name of my heroine, simply " E-ose ; '' 
Surname, tolerable only in prose ; 
Habitaty Paris, — that is where 
She resided for change of air ; 
JEtat twenty ; complexion fair ; 
E-ich, good looking, and debonnaire ; 
Smarter than Jersey lightning. There ! 
That 's her photograph, done with care. 

In Paris, whatever they do besides, 
Every lady in full dress rides ! 
Moire antiques you never meet 
Sweeping, the filth of a dirty street ; 
But every woman's claim to ton 

Depends upon 
The team she drives, whether phaeton, 
Landau, or britzka. Hence it "s plain 
That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, 
Should have a team that ought to be 
Equal to any in all Paris ! 

** Bring forth the horse ! '' The commissaire 
Bowed, and brought Miss Eose a pair 
Leading an equipage rich and rare. 
Why doth that lovely lady stare ? 
Why ? The tail of the off gray mare 
Is bobbed, by all that 's good and fair ! 
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear. 
Scarcely showing as much back hair 



THE TALE OF A PONY 235 

As Tam O'Shanter's " Meg," — and there, 
Lord knows, she 'd little enough to spare. 

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, 

But did as well-bred Frenchmen do : 

Raised his shoulders above his crown, 

Joined his thumbs with the fingers down. 

And said, " Ah, Heaven ! " — then, " Mademoiselle, 

Delay one minute, and all is well ! " 

He went — returned ; by what good chance 

These things are managed so well in France 

I cannot say, but he made the sale. 

And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing taiL 

All that is false in this world below 

Betrays itself in a love of show ; 

Indignant Nature hides her lash 

In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; 

The shallowest fop will trip in French, 

The would-b6 critic will misquote Trench; 

In short, you 're always sure to detect 

A sham in the things folks most affect ; 

Bean-pods are noisiest when dry. 

And you always wink with your weakest eye : 

And that 's the reason the old gray mare 

Forever had her tail in the air. 

With flourishes beyond compare. 

Though every whisk 

Incurred the risk 
Of leaving that sensitive region bare. 
She did some things that you could n't but feel 
She would n't have done had her tail" been real. 

Champs Elysees : time, past five. 
There go the carriages, — look alive ! 



236 MISCELLANEOUS 

Everything that man can drive, 
Or his inventive skill contrive, — 
Yankee buggy or English " chay," 
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupd, 
A desohligeante quite bulky 
(Erench idea of a Yankee sulky) ; 
Band in the distance playing a march, 
Eootman standing stiff as starch ; 
Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- 
Bishops, and there together range 
Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange 
Way these soldier-chaps make change), 
Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, 
With unpronounceable awful names ; 
Laces tremble and ribbons flout, 
Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout — 
Bless us ! what is the row about ? 
Ah ! here comes E,osy's new turnout ! 
Smart ! You bet your life 't was that ! 
Nifty ! (short for 'magnificat). 
Mulberry panels, — heraldic spread, — 
Ebony wheels picked out with red. 
And two gray mares that were thoroughbred : 
No wonder that every dandy's head 
Was turned by the turnout, — and 't was said 
That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), 
A very good whip (as Russians are). 
Was tied to Kosy's triumphal car. 
Entranced, the reader will understand. 
By " ribbons " that graced her head and hand. 

Alas ! the hour you think would crown 
Your highest wishes should let you down ! 
Or Eate should turn, by your own mischaneep 
Your victor's car to an ambulance. 



THE TALE OF A PONY 237 

From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance 1 

(And these things happen, even in France.) 

And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, 

The cynosure of every eye. 

Saw to her horror the off mare shy, 

Flourish her tail so exceedingly high 

That, disregarding the closest tie. 

And without giving a reason why. 

She flung that tail so free and frisky 

Off in the face of Caskowhisky. 

Excuses, blushes, smiles : in fine, 
End of the pony's tail, and mine ! 



ON A CONE OF THE BIG TEEES 

(sequoia oigantea) 

Brown foundling of the Western wood, 

Babe of primeval wildernesses ! 
Long on my table thou hast stood 

Encounters strange and rude caresses j 
Perchance contented with thy lot, 

Surroundings new, and curious faces, 
As though ten centuries were not 

Imprisoned in thy shining cases. 

Thou bring' st me back the halcyon days 

Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, 
The journey lapped in autumn haze, 

The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure. 
The morning ride, the noonday halt, 

The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, 
And then the dim, brown, columned vault. 

With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. 

Once more I see the rocking masts 

That scrape the sky, their only tenant 
The jay-bird, that in frolic casts 

From some high yard his broad blue pennant. 
I see the Indian files that keep 

Their places in the dusty heather, 
Their red trunks standing ankle-deep 

In moccasins of rusty leather. 



ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES 239 

I see all this, and marvel much 

That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able 
To keep the company of such 

As throng thy friend's — the poet's — table : 
The latest spawn the press hath cast, — 

The " modern Popes," " the later Byrons," — 
Why, e'en the best may not outlast 

Thy poor relation — Sempervirens, 

Thy sire saw the light that shone 

On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, 
On many a royal gilded throne 

And deed forgotten in the present ; 
He saw the age of sacred trees 

And Druid groves and mystic larches; 
And saw from forest domes like these 

The builder bring his Gothic arches. 

And must thou, foundling, still forego 

Thy heritage and high ambition, 
To lie full lowly and full low, 

Adjusted to thy new condition ? 
Not hidden in the drifted snows. 

But under ink-drops idly spattered, 
And leaves ephemeral as those 

That on thy woodland tomb were scattered ? 

Yet lie thou there, friend ! and speak 

The moral of thy simple story : 
Though life is all that thou dost seek. 

And age alone thy crown of glory, 
Kot thine the only germs that fail 

The purpose of their high creation. 
If their poor tenements avail 

For worldly show and ostentation. 



LONE MOUNTAIN 

(cemetery, SAN FRANCISCO*) 

This is that hill of awe 
That Persian Siodbad saw, — - 

The mount magnetic; 
And on its seaward face, 
Scattered along its base. 

The wrecks prophetic. 

Here come the argosies 
Blown by each idle breeze, 

To and fro shifting; 
Yet to the hill of Fate 
All drawing, soon or late, — 

Day by day drifting; 

Drifting forever here 
Barks that for many a year 

Braved wind and weather | 
Shallops but yesterday 
Launched on yon shining bay, —= 

Drawn all together. 

This is the end of all : 
Sun thyself by the wall, 

O poorer Hindbad ! 
Envy not Sindbad's fame : 
Here come alike the same 

Hindbad and Sindbad. 



ALKASCHAR 

Here's yer toy balloons ! All sizes! 
Twenty cents for that. It rises 
Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss, 
Twice as big. Ye see it is 
Some more fancy. Make it square 
Fifty for 'em both. That's fair. 

That 's the sixth I 've sold since noon. 
Trade 's reviving. Just as soon 
As this lot 's worked off, I '11 take 
Wholesale figgers. Make or break, — 
That 's my motto ! Then I '11 buy 
In some first-class lottery 
One half ticket, numbered right — 
As I dreamed about last night. 

That '11 fetch it. Don't tell me I 
When a man 's in luck, you see, 
All things help him. Every chance 
Hits him like an avalanche. 
Here 's your toy balloons. Miss. Eh ? 
You won't turn your face this way ? 
Mebbe you '11 be glad some day. 
With that clear ten thousand prize 
This 'yer trade I '11 drop, and rise 
Into wholesale. No ! I '11 take 
Stocks in Wall Street. Make or break, 
That 's my motto ! With my luck, 
Where 's the chr ace of being stuck ? 



242 MISCELLANEOUS 

Call it sixty thousand, clear, 
Made in Wall Street in one year. 

Sixty thousand ! Umph ! Let 's see I 
Bond and mortgage '11 do for me. 
Good ! That gal that passed me by 
Scornful like — why, mebbe I 
Some day '11 hold in pawn — why not ? « 
All her father's prop. She '11 spot 
What 's my little game, and see 
What I 'm after 's her. He ! he ! 

He ! he ! When she comes to sue — 
Let 's see ! What 's the thing to do ? 
Kick her ? No ! There 's the perliss ! 
Sorter throw her off like this. 
Hello! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey! 
There 's my whole stock got away, 
Kiting on the house-tops ! Lost ! 
All a poor man's fortin ! Cost ? 
Twenty dollars ! Eh ! What 's this ? 
Fifty cents ! God bless ye, Miss 1 



THE TWO SHIPS 

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest. 

Looking over the ultimate sea, 
In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest, 

And one sails away from the lea : 
One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, 

With pennant and sheet flowing free ; 
One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback, — 

The ship that is waiting for me ! 

But lo ! in the distance the clouds break away. 

The Gate's glowing portals I see ; 
And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay 

The song of the sailors in glee. 
So I think of the luminous footprints that bore 

The comfort o'er dark Galilee, 
And wait for the signal to go to the shore, 

To the ship that is waiting for me. 



ADDRESS 

[opening of the CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRAN' 
CISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870) 

Brief words, when actions wait, are well : 
The prompter's hand is on his bell ; 
The coming heroes, lovers, kings, 
Are idly lounging at the wings ; 
Behind the curtain's mystic fold 
The glowing future lies unrolled ; 
And yet, one moment for the Past, 
One retrospect, — the first and last. 

" The world 's a stage," the Master said. 
To-night a mightier truth is read : 
Not in the shifting canvas screen, 
The flash of gas or tinsel sheen ; 
Not in the skill whose signal calls 
From empty boards baronial halls ; 
But, fronting sea and curving bay, 
Behold the players and the play. 

Ah, friends ! beneath your real skies 
The actor's short-lived triumph dies : 
On that broad stage of empire won, 
Whose footlights were the setting sun, 
Whose flats a distant background rose 
In trackless peaks of endless snows ; 
Here genius bows, and talent waits 
To copy that but One creates. 



ADDRESS 245 

Your shifting scenes : the league of sand, 

An avenue by ocean spanned ; 

The narrow beach of straggling tents, 

A mile of stately monuments ; 

Your standard, lo ! a flag unfurled, 

Whose clinging folds clasp half the world, — 

This is your drama, built on facts. 

With " twenty years between the acts." 

One moment more : if here we raise 
The oft-sung hymn of local praise. 
Before the curtain facts must sway ; 
Here waits the moral of your play. 
Glassed in the poet's thought, you view 
What money can, yet cannot do ; 
The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, 
Above the gold that builds the shrine. 

And oh ! when others take our place, 
And Earth's green curtain hides our face, 
Ere on the stage, so silent now. 
The last new hero makes his bow : 
So may our deeds, recalled once more 
In IVTemory's sweet but brief encore, 
Down all the circling ages run. 
With the world's plaudit of " Well done!^ 



DOLLY VARDEN 

Dear Dolly ! who does not recall 
The thrilling page that pictured all 
Those charms that held our sense in thrall 

Just as the artist caught her, — 
As down that English lane she tripped, 
In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, 
Trim-hodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped, — 

The locksmith's pretty daughter ? 

Sweet fragment of the Master^s art! 
O simple faith ! rustic heart ! 
O maid tliat hath no counterpart 

In life's dry, dog-eared pages ! 
Where shall we find thy like ? Ah, stay I 
Methinks I saw her yesterday 
In chintz that flowered, as one might say. 

Perennial for ages. 

Her father's modest cot was stone. 
Five stories high ; in style and tone 
Composite, and, I frankly own, 

Within its walls revealing 
Some certain novel, strange ideas : 
A Gothic door with E-oman piers. 
And floors removed some thousand years 

From their Pompeian ceiling. 

The small salon where she received 
Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved 



DOLLY VARDEN 24^ 

By Chinese cabinets, conceived 

Grotesquely by the heathen ; 
The sofas were a classic sight, — 
The Koman bench (sedilia hight) ; 
The chairs were French in gold ajid white. 

And one Elizabethan. 

And she, the goddess of that shrine, 
Two ringed fingers placed in mine, — 
The stones were many carats fine, 

And of the purest water, — 
Then dropped a curtsy, far enough 
To fairly fill her cretonne puff 
And show the petticoat's rich stuff 

That her fond parent bought her. 

Her speech was simple as her dress, — 
Not French the more, but English less, 
She loved ; yet sometimes, I confess, 

I scarce could comprehend her. 
Her manners were quite far from shy 
There was a quiet in her eye 
Appalling to the Hugh who 'd try 

With rudeness to offend her. 

^' But whence," I cried, " this masquerade f 
Some figure for to-night's charade, 
A Watteau shepherdess or maid ? " 
She smiled and begged my pardon : 
** Why, surely you must know the name, — 
That woman who was Shakespeare's flame 
Or Byron's, — well, it 's all the same : 
Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden T' 



TELEMACHUS VEESUS MEN-rOR 

I>on't mind me, I beg you, old fellow, — I '11 do very well 

here alone ; 
You must not be kept from your " German " because I ' ve 

dropped in like a stone. 
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught 

but yourself ; 
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on 

the shelf. 

A& for me, you will say to your hostees — well, I scarcely 

need give you a cue. 
Chant my praise ! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury 

pipe to a few. 
Say just what you please, my dear boy 5 there 's more 

eloquence lies in youth's rash 
Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this 

grizzling mustache. 

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, — youth's panoplied 

armor for fight, — 
And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and 

lasts but a night ; 
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three 

Sisters shall frown. 
And you '11 lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at 

ease in your gown. 



TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR 249 

He *s oS ! There 's his foot on the staircase. By Jove, 

what a bound ! Really now 
Did / ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet 

green on my brow ? 
Was / such an ass ? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember 

quite plain 
A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened 

my pain. 

He 's gone ! There 's the slam of his cab door, there 's the 
clatter of hoofs and the wheels ; 

And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I '11 
tilt up my heels. 

He 's gone, and for what ? For a tremor from a waist like 
a teetotum spun ; 

For a rosebud that 's crumpled by many before it is gath- 
ered by one. 

Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a 
passionate race — 

'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd — to the goal of 
a beautiful face ? 

A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits en- 
force. 

But is won by some fainSant youth, who shall simply walk 
over the course ? 

Poor boy ! shall I shock his conceit ? When he talks of 
her cheek's loveliness. 

Shall I say 't was the air of the room, and was due to car- 
bonic excess ? 

That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the 
veins of her eyelids grew dim, 

T was oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of 
him? 



250 MISCELLANEOUS 

Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's 

strangled in birth, 
Kecalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified 

mirth ? 
Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, 

and forget 
In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's 

gay Castanet ? 

Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that 

forever is shut 
On the past ? Shall I speak of my first love — Augusta — 

my Lalage ? But 
I forget. Was it really Augusta ? No. 'T was Lucy ! 

No. Mary ! No. Di ! 
Never mind ! they were all first and faithless, and yet — 

I've forgotten just why. 

No, no ! Let him dream on and ever. Alas ! he will 

waken too soon ; 
And it does n't look well for October to always be preaching 

at June. 
Poor boy ! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder — ' 

a bow from her hair, 
A few billets-doux, invitations, and — what 's this ? My 

name, I declare ! 

Humph \ " You '11 come, for I 've got you a prize, with 

beauty and money no end : 
You know her, I think ; 't was on dit she once was engaged 

to your friend ; 
But she says that 's all over." Ah, is it ? Sweet Ethel ! 

incomparable maid ! 
Or — what if the thing were a trick ? —- this letter so freely 

displayed ! — 



TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR 251 

My opportune presence ! No ! nonsense ! Will nobody 

answer the bell ? 
Call a cab ! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel ! 

Why don't you go ? Well ? 
" Master said you would wait " — Hang your master ! 

" Have I ever a message to send ? " 
Yes, tell him I 've gone to the German to dance with the 

friend of his friend. 



WHAT THE WOLF KEALLY SAID TO LITTLE 
EED EIDING-HOOD 

WoNDERiXG maiden, so puzzled and fair, 
Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare ? 
" Why are my eyelids so open and wild ? " 
Only the better to see with, my child ! 
Only the better and clearer to view 
Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue. 

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms 
Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms. 
Swaying so wickedly ? Are they misplaced 
Clasping or shielding some delicate waist ? • 
Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear 
Only the better protect you, my dear ! 

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, 
Why do I press your small hand when we meet ? 
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, 
Why did I sigh, and why did n't I speak ? 
Why, well : you see — if the truth must appear — 
I 'm npt your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear ! 



HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER 

^\ So she 's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you 

met on the train, 
And you really believe she would know you if you were to 

meet her again ? " 

" Of course," he replied, " she would know me ; there never 

was womankind yet 
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not 

forget.'' 

" Then you told her your love ? " asked the elder. The 

younger looked up with a smile : 
" I sat by her side half an hour — what else was I doing 

the while ? 

" What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the 

sky, 
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from 

your own to her eye ? 

" No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and 

as bold as the look. 
And I held up herself to herself, — that was more than she 

got from her book." 

" Young blood ! " laughed the elder ; " no doubt you are 

voicing the mode of To-Day : 
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance 

for delay. 



254 MISCELLANEOUS 

*' There 's ray wife (you must know), — we first met on 

the journey from Florence to Kome : 
It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where 

was her home j 

" Three more to be duly presented ; three more ere I saw 

her again ; 
And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that 

day on the train." 

" Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach ; we travel to-day 

by express ; 
Forty miles to the hour," he answered, " won't admit of a 

passion that 's less." 

" But what if you make a mistake ? " quoth the elder. The 
younger half sighed. 

"What happens when signals are wrong or switches mis- 
placed ? " he replied. 

"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder re- 
turned, " but submit 

Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has 
bettered no whit. 

" Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I 

try your ideal 
With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regie 

and real ? 

" Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist — you 

shall follow — this way. 
My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Eapid 

to stay ? 



HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUrPER 255 

« My wife, Mr. Kapid — Eh, what ! Why, he 's gone — 

yet he said he would come. 
How rude ! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly 

crimson and dumb ! " 



WHAT THE BULLET SANG 

JOY of creation 
To be ! 

rapture to fly 

And be free ! 
Be the battle lost or won, 
Though its smoke shall, hide the sun, 

1 shall find my love, — the one 

Born for me ! 

I shall know him where he stands, 

All alone. 
With the power in his hands 

Not o'erthrown ; 
I shall know him by his face, 
By his godlike front and grace ; 
I shall hold him for a space, 

All my own ! 

It is he — my love ! 

So bold ! 
It is I — all thy love 

Foretold ! 
It is I. love ! what bliss ! 
Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 
O sweetheart ! what is this ' 

Lieth there so cold ? 



THE OLD CAMP-FIRE 

Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you 

fling, 
And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from 

the ring : 
We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide. 
Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride, 
And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire, 
Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire. 

Yes, twenty years ! Lord ! how we 'd scent its incense 

down the trail. 
Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear 

would fail, 
And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, 

to rest, 
Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, 

abreast. 
Ay ! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think 

he 's nigher, 
Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old 

camp-fire. 

You know the shout that would ring out before us down 

the glade. 
And start the blue jays like a flight of arrows through the 

shade. 
And sift the thin pine needles down like slanting, shining 

rain. 
And send the squirrels scampering back to their holes again, 



258 ^ MISCELLANEOUS 

Until we saw, blue-veiled and dim, or leaping like desire, 
That flame of twenty years ago, which lit the old camp« 
fire. 

And then that rest on Nature's breast, when talk had 

dropped, and slow 
The night wind went from tree to tree with challenge soft 

and low I 
We lay on lazy elbows propped, or stood to stir the flame, 
Till up the soaring redwood's shaft our shadows danced and 

came. 
As if to draw us with the sparks, high o'er its unseen spire, 
To the five stars that kept their ward above the old camp- 
fire, — 

Those picket stars whose tranquil watch half soothed, half 

shamed our sleep. 
What recked we then what beasts or men around might 

lurk or creep ? 
We lay and heard with listless ears the far-off panther's cry. 
The near coyote's snarling snap, the grizzly's deep-drawn 

sigh, 
The brown bear's blundering human tread, the gray wolves' 

yelping choir 
Beyond the magic circle drawn around the old camp-fire. 

And then that morn ! Was ever morn so filled with all 

things new ? 
The light that fell through long brown aisles from out the 

kindling blue. 
The creak and yawn of stretching boughs, the jay-bird's 

early call, 
The rat-tat-tat of woodpecker that waked the woodland hall, 
The fainter stir of lower life in fern and brake and brier. 
Till flashing leaped the torch of Pay from last night's old 

camp-fire I 



THE OLD CAMP-FIRE 259 

Well, well ! we '11 see it once again ; we should be near it 

now ; 
It 's scarce a mile to where the trail strikes off to skirt the 

slongh, 
And then the dip to Indian Spring, the wooded rise, and — 

strange ! 
Yet here should stand the blasted pine that marked our 

farther range ; 
And here — what 's this ? A ragged swale of ruts and 

stumps and mire ! 
Sure this is not the sacred grove that hid the old camp-fire ! 

Yet here 's the ^' blaze " I cut myself, and there 's the 

stumbling ledge, 
With quartz " outcrop '^ that lay atop, now leveled to its 

edge, 
And mounds of moss-grown stumps beside the woodman's 

rotting chips. 
And gashes in the hillside, that gape with dumb red lips. 
And yet above the shattered wreck and ruin, curling higher — 
Ah yes ! — still lifts the smoke that marked the welcome 

old camp-fire ! 

Perhaps some friend of twenty years still lingers there to 

raise 
To weary hearts and tired eyes that beacon of old days. 
Perhaps — but stay ; 't is gone ! and yet once more it lifts 

as though 
To meet our tardy blundering steps, and seems to move, and 

lo! 
Whirls by us in a rush of sound, — the vanished funeral 

pyre 
Oi hopes and fears that twenty years burned in the old 

camp-fire ! 



260 MISCELLANEOUS 

For see, beyond the prospect spreads, with chimney, spire, 

and roof, — 
Two iron bands across the trail clank to our mustang's hoof • 
Above them leap two blackened threads from limb-lopped 

tree to tree. 
To where the whitewashed station speeds its message to the 

sea. 
Eein in ! Kein in ! The quest is o'er. The goal of our 

desire 
Is but the train whose track has lain across the old camp* 

firel 



THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIEIE 

Aisr empty bench, a sky of grayest etching, 

A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette, 

Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching 

Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet. 

North, south, east, west, — the same dull gray persistences: 
The tattered vapors of a vanished train. 
The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance, 
Or break the columns of the far-olF rain. 

Naught but myself ; nor form nor figure breaking 
The long hushed level and stark shining waste ; 
Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching. 
When the last shadow fled in sullen haste. 

Nothing beyond. Ah yes ! Erom out the station 
A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky, 
Beckoning me with some wooden salutation 
Caught from his signals as the train flashed by ; 

Yielding me place beside him with dumb gesture 
Born of that reticence of sky and air. 
We sit apart, yet wrapped in that one vesture 
Of silence, sadness, and unspoken care : 

Each following his own thought, — around us darkening 
The rain-washed boundaries and stretching track, — 
Each following those dim parallels and hearkening 
For long-lost voices that will not come back. 



262 MISCELLANEOUS 

Until, unasked, — I knew not why or wherefore, — 
He yielded, bit by bit, his dreary past, 
Like gathered clouds that seemed to thicken there for 
Some dull down-dropping of their care at last. 

Long had he lived there. As a boy had started 
From the stacked corn the Indian's painted face ; 
Heard the wolves' howl the wearying waste that parted 
His father's hut from the last camping-place. 

Nature had mocked him : thrice had claimed the reaping, 
With scythe of fire, of lands she once had sown ; 
Sent the tornado, round his hearthstone heaping 
Kafters, dead faces that were like his own. 

Then came the War Time. When its shadow beckoned 

He had walked dumbly where the flag had led 

Through swamp and fen, — unknown, unpraised, unreck- 

oned, — 
To famine, fever, and a prison bed. 

Till the storm passed, and the slow tide returning 
Cast him, a wreck, beneath his native sky ; 
Here, at his watch, gave him the chance of earning 
Scant means to live — who won the right to die. 

All this I heard — or seemed to hear — half blending 
With the low murmur of the coming breeze, 
The call of some lost bird, and the unending 
And tireless sobbing of those grassy seas. 

Until at last the spell of desolation 
Broke with a trembling star and far-off cry. 
The coming train ! I glanced around the station 
All was as empty as the upper sky! 



THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE 263 

Naught but myself ; nor form nor figure waking 
The long hushed level and stark shming waste ; 
Naught but myself, that cry, and the dull shaking 
Of wheel and axle, stopped in breathless haste ! 

" Now, then — look sharp ! Eh, what ? The Station" 

Master ? 
Thar ^s none ! We stopped here of our own accord. 
The man got killed in that down-train disaster 
This time last evening. Right there ! All aboard I '* 



THE MISSION BELLS OF MONTEEEY 

BELLS that rang, bells that sang 

Above the martyrs' wilderness, 

Till from that reddened coast-line sprang 

The Gospel seed to cheer and bless, 

What are your garnered sheaves to-day ? 

Mission bells ! Eleison bells ! 

Mission bells of Monterey ! 

bells that crash, bells that clash 
Above the chimney-crowded plain, 
On wall and tower your voices dash, 
But never with the old refrain ; 
In mart and temple gone astray ! 
Ye dangle bells ! Ye jangle bells I 
Ye wrangle bells of Monterey ! 

O bells that die, so far, so nigh, 
Come back once more across the sea | 
Not with the zealot's furious cry, 
Not with the creed's austerity ; 
Come with His love alone to stay, 
Mission bells ! Eleison bells 1 
O Mission bells of Monterey ! 

Note. This poem was set to music by Monsieur Charles Gounod. 



"CEOTALUS" 

(rattlesnake bar, sierras) 

"No life in earth, or air, or sky ; 
The sunbeams, broken silently. 
On the bared rocks around me lie, — 

Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarredj, 
And scales of moss ; and scarce a yard 
Away, one long strip, yellow-barred. 

Lost in a cleft ! 'T is but a stride 
To reach it, thrust its roots aside, 
,And lift it on thy stick astride ! 

Yet stay ! That moment is thy grace ! 
For round thee, thrilling air and space, 
A chattering terror fills the place ! 

A sound as of dry bones that stir 
In the Dead Valley ! By yon fir 
The locust stops its noonday whir ! 



The wild bird hears ; smote with the sound 

As if by bullet brought to ground. 

On broken wing, dips, wheeling round ! 

The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip, 
Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip, 
And palsied tread, and heels that slip. 



266 MISCELLANEOUS 

• • « • • o • 

Enough, old friend ! — 't is thou. Forget 
My heedless foot, nor longer fret 
The peace with thy grim castanet ! 



I know thee ! Yes ! Thou mayst forego 
That lifted crest ; the measured blow 
Beyond which thy pride scorns to go, 



Or yet retract ! For me no spell 

Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell 

Machicolated fires of hell ! 

I only know thee humble, bold, 

Haughty, with miseries untold. 

And the old Curse that left thee cold, 

And drove thee ever to the sun. 

On blistering rocks ; nor made thee shun 

Our cabin's hearth, when day was done, 

And the spent ashes warmed thee best ; 
We knew thee, — silent, joyless guest 
Of our rude ingle. E'en thy quest 

Of the rare milk-bowl seemed to be 
Naught but a brother's poverty, 
And Spartan taste that kept thee free 

From lust and rapine. Thou ! whose fame 
Searchest the grass with tongue of flame, 
Making all creatures seem thy game ; 

When the whole woods before thee run, 
Asked but — when all was said and done — 
To lie, untrodden, in the sun ! 



ON WILLIAM FEANCIS BAETLETT 

DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASS., 1876 

POOR Eoniancer — thou whose printed page, 
Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife, 
Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage 
Ko trace appears of gentler ways and life ! — 

Thou who wast wont of commoner clay to build 
Bome rough Achilles or some Ajax tall ; 
Thou whose free brush too oft was wont to gild 
Some single virtue till it dazzled all ; — 

What right hast thou beside this laureled bier 
Whereon all manhood lies — whereon the wreath 
Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here 
The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath ? 

Seest thou these hatchments ? Knowest thou this blood 
Nourished the heroes of Colonial days — 
Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood 
Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise ? 

Look round thee ! Everywhere is classic ground. 
There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver '' Bowl '^ 
Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found 
Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul. 

Still silent, Stranger ? Thou who now and then 
Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak? 



268 MISCELLANEOUS 

Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen ? 
What, Jester ! Tears upon that painted cheek ? 

Pardon, good friends ! I am not here to mar 

His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown — » 

This man who taught me how 't was better far 

To be the poem than to write it down. 

I bring no lesson. Well have others preached 
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow ; 
I come once more to touch the hand that reached 
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe. 

O pale Aristocrat, that liest there, 
So cold, so silent ! Couldst thou not in grace 
Have borne with us still longer, and so spare 
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face ? 

" Hail and farewell ! '^ So the proud Roman cried 
O'er his dead hero. ^'Hail,'' but not "farewell." 
With each high thought thou walkest side by side ; 
We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell ! 



THE BIRDS OF CIHENCESTER 

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way 

That the birds of Cisseter — " Cisseter ! '* eh ? 

Well " Ciren-cester '' — one ought to say, 

From " Castra,'' or " Caster," 

As your Latin master 

Will further explain to you some day ; 

Though even the wisest err. 

And Shakespeare writes *' Ci-eester," 

While every visitor 

Who does n't say " Cissiter " 

Is in " Ciren-cester " considered astray. 

A hundred miles from Lcmdon town — 

Where the river goes curving and broadening down 

From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast. 

Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last — 

A hundred miles from that flat foreshore 

That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more — 

There 's a little cup in the Cotswold hills 

Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills, 

Spanned by a heron's wing — crossed by a stride — 

Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride, 

Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims, 

That is the source of the lordly Thames ! 

Remark here again that custom contemns 

Both " Tames " and Thames — you must say " Terns ! '* 

But why ? no matter ! — from them you can see 

Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea. 



270 MISCELLANEOUS 

A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two, 
The Saxon invaders — a terrible crew — 
Had forced the lines of the Britons through; 
And Cirencester, half mud and thatch. 
Dry and crisp as a tinder match, 
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, \Yho 'd catch 
At any device that could harry and rout 
The folk that so boldly were holding out. 

For the streets of the town — as you '11 see to-day — 

Were twisted and curved in a curious way 

That kept the invaders still at bay ; 

And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew 

Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew, 

By a turn in the street, and a law so true 

That even these robbers — of all laws scorners! — 

Knew you could n't shoot arrows around street corners. 

So they sat them down on a little knoll, 

And each man scratched his Saxon poll, 

And stared at the sky, where, clear and high, 

The birds of that summer went singing by, 

As if, in his glee, each motley jester 

Were mocking the foes of Cirencester, 

Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet 

Seemed all to be saying : " Ah ! you 're not in it ! '' 

High o'er their heads the mavis flew. 
And the " ouzel-cock so black of hue ; " 
And the '•'■ throstle," with his " note so true " 
(You remember what Shakespeare says — lie knew) ; 
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through 
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue ; 
And the merlin — seen on heraldic panes — 
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's ; 



THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER 271 

And the dashing swift that would ricochet 
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet • — 
Like bold Antaeus — would each time bring 
New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing ; 
And the swallow and martlet that always knew 
The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew 
His breath — tapped his forehead — an idea had got 
through ! 

So they brought them some nets, which straightway they 

filled 
With the swallows and martlets — the sweet birds who build 
In the houses of man — all that innocent guild 
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch — 
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match 
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go 
To be free ! As a child-like diversion ? Ah, no I 
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe. 

For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest 

Of their homes and their fledgelings — that they loved the 

best ; 
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped 
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead, 
Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed. 
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came, 
To the Briton's red ruin — the Saxon's red shame ! 

Yet they 're all gone together ! To-day you '11 dig up 
From " mound " or from " barrow " some arrow or cup. 
Their fame is forgotten — their story is ended — 
'Keath the feet of the race they have mixed with and 

blended. 
But the birds are unchanged — the ouzel-cock sings, 
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings ; 



272 MISCELLANF DUS 

And the lark chants on high, t.s he mounts to the sky, 
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye ; 
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester 
lu the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester. 



LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOB 
PERSON 

When Z bought you for a song, 
Years ago — Lord knows how long I — 
I was struck — I may be wrong ■— 

By your features, 
And — a something in your air 
That I could n't quite compare 
To my other plain or fair 

Eellow creatures. 

In your simple, oval frame 

You were not well known to fame, 

But to me — 't was all the same — 

Whoe'er drew you ; 
For your face I can't forget, 
Though I oftentimes regret 
That, somehow, I never yet 

Saw quite through you. 

Yet each morning, when I rise, 
I go first to greet your eyes; 
And, in turn, you scrutinize 

My presentment. 
And when shades of evening fall, 
As you hang upon my wall. 
You 're the last thing I recall 

With contentment. 



274 MISCELLANEOUS 

It is weakness, yet I know 
That I never turned to go 
Anywhere, for weal or woe, 

But I lingered 
For one parting, thrilling flash 
From your eyes, to give that dash 
To the curl of my mustache, 

That I fingered. 

If to some you may seem plain, 
And when people glance again 
Where you hang, their lips refrain 

From confession ; 
Yet they turn in stealth aside. 
And I note, they try to hide 
How much they are satisfied 

In expression. 

Other faces I have seen ; 

Other forms have come between; 

Other things I have, I ween, 

Done and dared for ! 
But our ties they cannot sever, 
And, though / should say it never, 
You 're the only one I ever 

Eeally cared for ! 

And you '11 still be hanging there 
"When we 're both the w^orse for weaTi 
And the silver 's on my hair 

And off your backing ; 
Yet my faith shall never pass 
In my dear old shaving-glass, 
Till my face and yours, alasl 

Both are lacking ! 



HER LAST LETTER 

BEING A REPLY TO " HIS ANSWER " 

June 4th ! Do you know what that date means ? 

June 4th ! By this air and these pines ! 
Well, — only you know how I hate scenes, — 

These might be my very last lines ! 
For perhaps, sir, you ^11 kindly remember — 

If some other things you 've forgot — 
That you last wrote the 4th of December, — 

Just six months ago ! — from this spot ; 

From this spot, that you said was "the fairest 

For once being held in my thought.'' 
Now, really I call that the barest 

Of — well, I won't say what I ought! 
For here I am back from my " riches," 

My "triumphs," my " tours," and all that*, 
And you 're not to be found in the ditches 

Or temples of Poverty Flat ! 

From Paris we went for the season 

To London, when pa wired, " Stop." 
Mama says " his health " was the reason. 

(I've heard that some things took a "drop,") 
But she said if my patience I 'd summon 

I could go back with him to the Flat — 
Perhaps I was thinking of some one 

Who of me — well — was not thinking that ! 



276 MISCELLANEOUS 

Of course you will say that I " never 

Eeplied to the letter you wrote." 
That is just like a man ! But, however, 

I read it — or how could I quote ? 
And as to the stories you 've heard (No, 

Don't tell me you have n't — I know !), 
You '11 not helieve one blessed word, Joe ; 

But just whence they came, let them go ! 

And they came from Sade Lotski of Yolo, 

Whose father sold clothes on the Bar — • 
You called him Job-lotski, you know, Joe, 

And the boys said her value was par. 
Well, we met her in Paris — just flaring 

With diamonds, and lost in a hat ! 
And she asked me " How Joseph was faring 

In his love-suit on Poverty Flat ! " 

She thought it would shame me ! I met her 

With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop | 
And I said that your " love-suit fared better 

Than any suit out of their shop ! " 
And I did n't blush then — as I 'm doing 

To find myself here, all alone. 
And left, Joe, to do all the " sueing " 

To a lover that 's certainly flown. 

In this brand-new hotel, called " The Lily '' 

(I wonder who gave it that name ?), 
I really am feeling quite silly. 

To think I was once called the same ; 
And I stare from its windows, and fancy 

I 'm labeled to each passer-by. 
Ah ! gone is the old necromancy, 

For nothing seems right to my eye. 



HER LAST LETTER 277 

On that hill there are stores that I knew not ; 

There 's a street — where I once lost my way ; 
And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knot 

Is shamelessly open as day ! 
And that bank by the spring — I once drank there, 

And you called the place Eden, you know ; 
Kow I 'm banished like Eve — though the bank there 

Is belonging to " Adams and Co.*' 

There 's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk ; 

Just now there passed by a tall hat ; 
But there *s gloom in this " boom " and this wild talk 

Of the " future " of Poverty Flat. 
There 's a decorous chill in the air, Joe, 

Where once we were simple and free ; 
And I hear they 've been making a mayor, Joe, 

Of the man who shot Sandy McGee. 

But there 's still the " lap, lap " of the river ; 

There 's the song of the pines, deep and low. 
(How my longing for them made me quiver 

In the park that they call Fontainebleau !) 
There 's the snow-peak that looked on our dances, 

And blushed when the morning said, " Go ! " 
'There 's a lot that remains which one fancies — 

But somehow there 's never a Joe ! 

Perhaps, on the whole, it is better. 

For you might have been changed like the rest; 
Though it 's strange that I 'm trusting this letter 

To papa, just to have it addressed. 
He thinks he may find you, and really 

Seems kinder now I 'm all alone. 
You might have been here, Joe, if merely 

To look what I ^m willing to own. 



278 MISCELLANEOUS 

Well, well ! that 's all past ; so good-night, Joe ; 

Good-night to the river and Flat ; 
Good-night to what's wrong and what's right, Joe; 

Good-night to the past, and all that — 
. To Harrison's barn, and its dancers ; 

To the moon, and the white peak of snow j 
And good-night to the canon that answers 

My " Joe ! " with its echo of " No ! " 

p. s. 
I 've just got your note. You deceiver ! 

How dared you — how could you ? Oh, Joe I 
To think I 've been kept a believer 

In things that were six months ago ! 
And it 's you Ve built this house, and the bank, too, 

And the mills, and the stores, and all that ! 
And for everything changed I must thank you, 

Who have "struck it" on Poverty Flat! 

How dared you get rich — you great stupid ! — 

Like papa, and some men that I know. 
Instead of just trusting to Cupid 

And to me for your nioney ? Ah, Joe ! 
Just to think you sent never a word, dear, 

Till you wrote to papa for consent ! 
Now I know why they had me transferred here, 

And *' the health of papa " — what that meant ! 

Now I know why they call this " The Lily ; " 
' ' Why the man who shot Sandy McGee 
You made mayor ! 'T was because — oh, you silly ! — 

He once " went down the middle " with me ! 
I 've been fooled to the top of my bent here, 

So come, and ask pardon — you know 
That you've still got to get Tny consent, dear ! 

And just think what that echo said — Joe ! 



V. PAEODIES 

BEFOKE THE CURTAIN 

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, 
A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze 
Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze. 

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, 

And hardly fit for royal Eichard's stride, 

Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride. 

Ah, well ! no passion walks its humble boards ; 
O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords : 
The simplest skill is all its space afi"ords. 

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, 
The local hit at follies of the day, 
The trick to pass an idle hour away, — 

For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, 
No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,-* 
A single fiddle in the overture 1 



TO THE PLIOCElSrE SKULL* 

(a geological address) 

" Speak, man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation. 
Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum , 
Of volcanic tufa ! 

" Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium ; 
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogam^ ; 
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions 
Of earth's epidermis ! 

** Eo — Mio — Plio — whatsoe'er the ^ cene ' was 
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder, • 
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, — 
Tell us thy strange story ! 

" Or has the professor slightly antedated 
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, 
Giving thee an air that 's somewhat better fitted 
For cold-blooded creatures ? 

** Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest 
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria 
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant 
Carboniferous epoch ? 

1 See page 327. 



TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL 281 

"Tell us of that scene, — the dim and watery woodland, 
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect. 
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club* 
mosses, 
LycoDodiacea, — 

" When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, 
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, 
While from time to time above thee flew and circled 
Cheerful Pterodactyls. 

" Tell us of thy food, — those half-marine refections, 
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturelj -r^ 
Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo 
Seems a periwinkle. 

" Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation, 
Solitary fragment of remains organic ! 
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence, — 
Speak ! thou oldest primate ! " 

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, 
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, 
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication. 
Ground the teeth together. 

And from that imperfect dental exhibition. 
Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian. 
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs 
Of expectoration : 

^ Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted 
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County ; 
But I 'd take it kindly if you 'd send the pieces 
Home to old Missouri ! " 



THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 

(a legend of the cliff house, SAN FRANCISCO) 

Where the sturdy ocean breeze 
Drives the spray of roaring seas, 
That the Cliff House balconies 

Overlook : 
There, in spite of rain that balked. 
With his sandals duly chalked, 
Once upon a tight-rope walked 

Mr. Cooke. 

But the jester's lightsome mien. 
And his spangles and his sheen. 
All had vanished when the scene 

He forsook. 
Yet in some delusive hope, 
In some vague desire to cope, 
Gne still came to view the rope 

Walked by Cooke. 



Amid Beauty's bright array, 
On that strange eventful day, 
Partly hidden from the spray, 

In a nook, 
Stood Florinda Vere de Vere ; 
Who, with wind-disheveled hair, 
And a rapt, distracted air, 

Gazed on Cooke. 



THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 28S 

Then she turned, and quickly cried 

To her lover at her side, 

While her form with love and pride 

Wildly shook ; 
*'^ Clifford Snook ! oh, hear me now ! 
Here I break each plighted vow ; 
There 's but one to whom I" bow, 

And that 's Cooke ! ' 

Haughtily that young man spoke : 
•^^I descend from noble folk ; 
^ Seven Oaks,' and then ^ Se'nnoak,' 

Lastly * Snook/ 
Is the way my name I trace. 
Shall a youth of noble race 
In affairs of love give place 

To a Cooke ? " 

"Clifford Snook, I know thy claim 
To that lineage and name, 
And I think I 've read the same 

In Home Tookej 
But 1 swear, by all divine, 
Never, never, to be thine, 
Till thou canst upon yon line 

Walk like Cooke.'^ 

Though to that gymnastic feat 
He no closer might compete 
Than to strike a halance-^^^i 

In a book ; 
Yet thenceforward from that day 
He his figure would display 
In some wild athletic way. 

After Cookec 



254 PARODIES 

On some household eminence, 
On a clothes-line or a fence, 
Over ditches, drains, and thence 

O'er a brook, 
He, by high ambition led, 
Ever walked and balanced, 
Till the people, wondering, said, 

"How like Cooke !>* 

Step by step did he proceed, 
Nerved by valor, not by greed. 
And at last the crowning deed 

Undertook. 
Misty was the midnight air. 
And the cliff was bleak and bare. 
When he came to do and dare. 

Just like Cooke. 

Through the darkness, o'er the flow. 
Stretched the line where he should go, 
Straight across as flies the crow 

Or the rook. 
One wild glance around he cast ; 
Then he faced the ocean blast. 
And he strode the cable last 

Touched by Cooke. 

Vainly roared the angry seas. 
Vainly blew the ocean breeze ; 
But, alas ! the walker's knees 

Had a crook 5 
And before he reached the rock 
Did they both together knock. 
And he stumbled with a shock — 

Unlike Cooke I 



THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 285 

Downward dropping in the dark, 
Like an arrow to its mark, 
Or a fish-pole when a shark 

Bites the hook, 
Dropped the pole he could not save, 
Dropped the walker, and the wave 
Swift engulfed the rival brave 

Of J. Cooke! 

Came a roar across the sea 

Of sea-lions in their glee. 

In a tongue remarkably- 
Like Chinook; 

And the maddened sea-gull seemed 

Still to utter, as he screamed, 
*^* Perish thus the wretch who deemed 

Himself Cooke ! ^^ 

But on misty moonlit nights 
Comes a skeleton in tights. 
Walks once more the giddy heights 

He mistook; 
And unseen to mortal eyes. 
Purged of grosser earthly ties. 
Now at last in spirit guise 

Outdoes Cooke. 

Still the sturdy ocean breeze 
Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, 
Where the Cliff House balconies 

Overlook ; 
And the maidens in their prime, 
Keading of this mournful rhyme. 
Weep where, in the olden time. 

Walked J. Cooka 



THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU 

Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green — = 

So charming and rurally true — 
A singular bird, with a manner absurd. 

Which they call the Australian Emeu ? 

Have you 

Ever seen this Australian Emeu ? 

It trots all around with its head on the ground, 

Or erects it quite out of your view ; 
And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, 

" Oh ! what a sweet pretty Emeu ! 

Oh! do 

Just look at that lovely Emeu ! " 

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, 

Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue ; 
And beside her there came a youth of high name, — 

Augustus Florell Montague: 

The two 

Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. 

With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead 

Of the flesh of the white Cockatoo, 
Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood 

Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo, 

That too 

Is game for the famous Emeu ! 

Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets. 
Like the world-famous bark of Peru ; 



THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU 28^ 

There ^s nothing so hard that the bird will discard^ 
And nothing its taste will eschew 

That you 
Can give that long-legged Emeu ! 

The time slipped away in this innocent play, 
When up jumped the bold Montague : 
** Where 's that specimen pin that I gayly did win 
In raffle, and gave unto you, 

Fortescue ? '* 
No word spoke the guilty Emeu ! 

•' Quick ! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same. 
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue ! " 

"Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side, 
" I 'm innocent as that Emeu ! " 

" Adieu ! " 
He replied, " Miss M. H. Fortescue ! " 

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, 

As wildly he fled from her view ; 
He thought 't was her sin, — for he knew not the pin 

Had been gobbled up by the Emeu ; 

All through 

The voracity of that Emeu I 



MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 

(being the only genuine sequel to ••maud MUIi 

LER ") 

Maud Muller all that summer day 
Eaked the meadow sweet with hay ; 

Yet, looking down the distant lane, 
She hoped the Judge would come again. 

But when he came, with smile and bow, 

Maud only blushed, and stammered, " Ha-ow ? '^ 

And spoke of her " pa,'' and wondered whether 
He 'd give consent they should wed together. 

Old Muller burst in tears, and then 

Begged that the Judge would lend him " ten ; " 

For trade was dull, and wages low. 

And the ^' craps," this year, were somewhat slow. 

And ere the languid summer died. 
Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. 

But on the day that they were mated, 
Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated ; 

And Maud's relations, twelve in all, 
Were very drunk at the Judge's hall 



MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 289 

And when the summer came again, 
The young bride bore him babies twain ; 

And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange 
That bearing children made such a change ; 

For Maud grew broad and red and stout, 
And the waist that his arm once clasped about 

Was more than he now could span ; and he 
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully. 

How that which in Maud was native grace 
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place ; 

And thought of the twins, and wished that they 
Looked less like the men who raked the hay 

On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain 
Of the day he wandered down the lane. 

And looking down that dreary track. 
He half regretted that he came back ; 

For, had he waited, he might have wed 
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred j 

For there be women fair as she. 
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. 

Alas for maiden ! alas for judge ! 

And the sentimental, — that 's one-half *• fudge 5 '^ 

For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore. 
With all his learning and all his lore ; 



290 PARODIES 

And the Judge would have bartered Maudes fair face 
For more refinement and social grace. 

If, of all words of tongue and pen, 
The saddest are, " It might have been/* 

More sad are these we daily see : 
** It is, but had n't ought to be." 



A GEOLOGICAL MADEIGAL 

I HAVE found out a gift for my fair ; 

I know where the fossils abound, 
Where the footprints of Aves declare 

The birds that once walked on the ground* 
Oh, come, and — in technical speech — 

We '11 walk this Devonian shore, 
Or on some Silurian beach 

We '11 wander, my love, evermore. 

I will show thee the sinuous track 

By the slow-moving Annelid made. 
Or the Trilobite that, farther back, 

In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid j 
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, 

The Plesiosaurus embalmed ; 
In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, 

Iguanodon safe and unharmed. 

You wished — I remember it well, 

And I loved you the more for that wish >= 
For a perfect cystedian shell 

And a whole holocephalic fish. 
And oh, if Earth's strata contains 

In its lowest Silurian drift. 
Or palaeozoic remains 

The same, 't is your lover's free gift ! 

Then come, love, and never say nay, 
But calm all your maidenly fears ; 



292 PARODIES 

We '11 note, love, in one summer's day 
The record of millions of years ; 

And though the Darwinian plan 
Your sensitive feelings may shockj, 

We '11 find the beginning of man, 
Our fossil ancestors, in rock I 



AVITOR 

(an aerial retrospect) 

What was it filled my youthful dreams, 
In place of Greek or Latin themes, 
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams ? 

Avitor ! 

What visions and celestial scenes 
I filled with aerial machines, 
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's ! 

Avitor ! 

What fairy tales seemed things of course 2 
The roc that brought Sindbad across, 
The Calendar's own winged horse ! 

Avitor ! 

How many things I took for facts, — 
Icarus and his conduct lax, 
And how he sealed his fate with wax ! 

Avitor ! 

The first balloons I sought to sail. 
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail. 
Or kites, — but thereby hangs a tail. 

Avitor ! 

What made me launch from attic tall 
A kitten and a parasol. 
And watch their bitter, frightful fall ? 

Avitor ! 



294 PAEODIES 

What youthful dreams of high renown 
Bade me inflate the parson's gown, 
That went not up, nor yet came down ? 

Avitor ! 

My first ascent I may not tell ; 
Enough to know that in that well 
My first high aspirations fell. 

Avitor ! 

My other failures let me pass : 
The dire explosions, and, alas ! 
The friends I choked with noxious gaSe 

Avitor ! 

Por lo ! I see perfected rise 
The vision of my boyish eyes. 
The messenger of upper skies. 

Avitor I 



THE WILLOWS 

(after EDGAR ALLAN POE) 

The skies they were ashen and sober, 

The streets they were dirty and drear; 
It was night in the month of October, 

Of my most immemorial year. 
Like the skies, I was perfectly sober, 

As I stopped at the mansion of Shear, — =» 
At the Nightingale, — perfectly sober, 

And the willowy woodland down here. 

Here, once in an alley Titanic 

Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul, — 

Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul ; 
They were days when my heart was volcanic. 

And impelled me to frequently roll. 

And made me resistlessly roll, 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

In the realms of the Boreal pole, — 
Till my ten-strikes created a panic 

With the monkey atop of his pole. 

I repeat, I was perfectly sober. 

But my thoughts they were palsied and sear, 

My thoughts were decidedly queer ; 
Per I knew not the month was October, 

And I marked not the night of the year; 
I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber 

That the band oft performed down here. 



296 PARODIES 

And I mixed the sweet music of Auber 
With the Nightingale's music by Shearo 

And now as the night was senescent, 
And star-dials pointed to morn, 
And car-drivers hinted of morn, 

At the end of the path a liquescent 
And bibulous lustre was born ; 

'T was made by the bar-keeper present, 
Who mixed a duplicate horn, — 

His two hands describing a crescent 
Distinct with a duplicate horn. 

.Ajid I said : " This looks perfectly regal, 
'^OY it 's warm, and I know I feel dry, -= 
I am confident that I feel dry. 

We have come past the emeu and eagle. 
And watched the gay monkey on high 5 

Let us drink to the emeu and eagle. 

To the swan and the monkey on high, « 
To the eagle and monkey on high ; 

For this bar-keeper will not inveigle, 
Bully boy with the vitreous eye, — 

He surely would never inveigle, 

Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.,^^ 

But Mary, uplifting her finger, 

Said : " Sadly this bar I mistrust, — 
I fear that this bar does not trust. 

Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, fly, — let us fly, — ere we must ! ^* 

In terror she cried, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust ; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 



THE WILLOWS 297 

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, 
And tempted her into the room, 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 

But were stopped by the warning of doom, — = 
By some words that were warning of doom. 

And I said, " What is written, sweet sister, 
At the opposite end of the room ? " 

She sobbed, as she answered, " All liquors 
Must be paid for ere leaving the room." 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober. 
As the streets were deserted and drear, 
For my pockets were empty and drear ; 

And I cried : " It was surely October, 
On this very night of last year, 
That I journeyed, I journeyed down here, — ® 
That I brought a fair maiden down here, 
On this night of all nights in the year I 
Ah ! to me that inscription is clear ; 

Well I know now, I ^m perfectly sober. 
Why no longer they credit me here, — 

Well I know now that music of Auber, 
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.'' 



NOETH BEACH 

(after Spenser) 

Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 

Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, — 

No more the home where joy and wealth repose, 

But now where wassailers in cells abide ; 

See yon long quay that stretches far and wide, 

Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs : 

There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride 

The pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs 

Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's. 

Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid, 
"While in her ear her love his tale doth pour ; 
Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, 
And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore. 
Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, 
Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. 
Ah me ! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore 
When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar I 

Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, 

And at its side a garden, where the bear, 

The stealthy catamount, and coon agree 

To work deceit on all who gather there ; 

And when Augusta — that unconscious fair — 

With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, 

Lo ! the green parrot claweth her back hair. 

And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that she 

On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee I 



THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS 

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of 

clover, 
Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian 

streamlet. 
She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr 
Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his 

chestnuts. 

S^ainly the Msenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her. 

The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan — the renowned^ 
the accomplished — 

Executed his difficult solo= In vain were their gambols 
and dances ; 

High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shep- 
herdess, wailing : 

*' Ai ! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless 
faces ; 

Ai ! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high- 
stepping ; 

Ai ! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, 
sagacious. 

Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion ! " 

Her then Zeus answered slow : " daughter of song and 

sorrow. 
Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation ! 
Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes 

a Greek maiden. 
Look and behold thy sheep/' And lo ! they returned to 

her tailless ! 



THE EITUALIST 

(by a communicant of " ST. JAMESES '') 

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met ; 

A stole and snowy alb likewise, — I recollect it yet. 

He called me '^ daughter," as he raised his jeweled hand to 
bless ; 

And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, " Would I con- 
fess ? " 

mother dear ! blame not your child, if then on bended 

knees 

1 dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise ; 

Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the j)yx, 
I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix. 

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me 
weak, 

And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct 
'' cheek ; '' 

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, 

May term his mixed chalice " grog,'' his vestments '' petti- 
coats J '' 

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I '11 build a Christian's hope 
On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. 
Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess : 
" His can't be wrong " that 's symbolized by such becoming 
dress. 



A MORAL VINDICATOR 

If Mr. Jones, Lycnrgus B., 
Had one peculiar quality, 
'T was his severe advocacy 
Of conjugal fidelity. 

His views of heaven were very free: 
His views of life were painfully 
Ridiculous ; but fervently 
He dwelt on marriage sanctity. 

He frequently went on a spree ; 
But in his wildest revelry, 
On this especial subject he 
Betrayed no ambiguity. 

And though at times Lycurgus B. 
Did lay his hands not lovingly 
Upon his wife, the sanctity 
Of wedlock was his guaranty. 

But Mrs. Jones declined to see 
Affairs in the same light as he, 
And quietly got a decree 
Divorcing her from that L. B. 



*o 



And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., 
With his known idiosyncrasy ? 
He smiled, — a bitter smile to see, 
And drew the weapon of Bowie. 



302 PARODIES 

He did what Sickles did to Key, — 
What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he 
In fact, on persons twenty -three 
He proved the marriage sanctity. 

The counselor who took the fee, 
The witnesses and referee. 
The judge who granted the decree, 
Died in that wholesale butchery. 

And then when Jones, Lycurgus Bop 
Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, 
Twelve jurymen did instantly 
Acquit and set Lycurgus free. 



CALIFOENIA MADEIGAL 

(on the approach of spring) 

Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode. 
From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed; 
For the waters have fallen, the whiter has fled. 
And the river once more has returned to its bed. 

Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near ! 
How the fences and tules once more reappear ! 
How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough 
By the hole in the levee the waters broke through ! 

All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet 
The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet ; 
For the trails are all open, the roads are all free. 
And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea. 

Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, 
And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale ; 
The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, 
Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. 

Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, 
Once more the red clay ^s pulverized by the hoof. 
Once more the dust powders the " outsides " with red, 
Once more at the station the whiskey is spread. 

Then fly with me, love, ere the summer 's begun. 
And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one ; 
Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, 
In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. 



WHAT THE ENGINES SAID 

(opening of the pacific railroad) 

What was it the Engines said, 
Pilots touching, — head to head 
Facing on the single track. 
Half a world behind each back ? 
This is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread. 

With a prefatory screech, 
In a florid Western speech. 
Said the Engine from the West : 
** I am from Sierra's crest ; 
And if altitude 's a test. 
Why, I reckon, it's confessed 
That I 've done my level best.'' 

Said the Engine from the East : 
" They who work best talk the least. 
S'pose you whistle down your brakes 5 
What you 've done is no great shakes, — 
Pretty fair, — but let our meeting 
Be a different kind of greeting. 
Let these folks with champagne stuffing, 
Not their Engines, do the puffing. 

^' Listen ! Where Atlantic beats 
Shores of snow and summer heats ; 
Where the Indian autumn skies 
Paint the woods with wampum dyes, — 



WHAT THE ENGINES SAID 305 

I have chased the flying sun, 
Seeing all he looked upon, 
Blessing all that he has hlessed, 
Nursing in my iron breast 
All his vivifying heat, 
All his clouds about my crest; 
And before my flying feet 
Every shadow must retreat." 

Said the Western Engine, " Phew ! '* 
And a long, low whistle blew. 
•^^ Come, now, really that ^s the oddest 
Talk for one so very modest. 
You brag of your East ! You do ? 
Why, I bring the East to you I 
All the Orient, all Cathay, 
Find through me the shortest way ; 
And the sun you follow here 
Rises in my hemisphere. 
Really, — if one must be rude, — 
Length, my friend, ain't longitude.'* 

Said the Union : ^^ Don't reflect, or 
I '11 run over some Director." 
Said the Central : " I 'm Pacific ; 
But, when riled, I 'ra quite terrific. 
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel. 
Just to show these folks this moral, 
How two Engines — in their vision — = 
Once have met without collision." 

That is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread; 
Spoken slightly through the nosje, 
With a whistle at the close. 



THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 

Beetling walls with ivy grown, 
Erowning heights of mossy stone ; 
Turret, with its flaunting flag 
Flung from battlemented crag ; 
Dungeon-keep and fortalice 
Looking down a precipice 
O'er the darkly glancing wave 
By the Lurline-haunted cave ; 
Bobber haunt and maiden bower, 
Home of Love and Crime and Power, 
That 's the scenery, in fine. 
Of the Legends of the Bhine. 

One bold baron, double-dyed 

Bigamist and parricide, 

And, as most the stories run. 

Partner of the Evil One ; 

Injured innocence in white, 

Fair but idiotic quite. 

Wringing of her lily hands ; 

Valor fresh from Paynim lands, 

Abbot ruddy, hermit pale. 

Minstrel fraught with many a tale, — = 

Are the actors that combine 

In the Legends of the Bhine. 

Bell-mouthed flagons round a board; 
Suits of armor, shield, and sword j 
Kerchief with its bloody stain ; 
Ghosts of the untimely slain ; 



THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE o07 

Thunder-clap and clanking chain ; 
Headsman's block and shining axe ; 
Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks ; 
Midnight-tolling chapel bell, 
Heard across the gloomy fell, — 
These and other pleasant facts 
Are the properties that shine 
In the Legends of the Rhine. 

Maledictions, whispered vows 
Underneath the linden boughs; 
Murder, bigamy, and theft; 
Travelers of goods bereft ; 
Kapine, pillage, arson, spoil, -^ 
Everything but honest toil, 
Are the deeds that best define 
Every Legend of the Rhine. 

That Virtue always meets reward, 
But quicker when it wears a sword g 
That Providence has special care 
Of gallant knight and lady fair ; 
That villains, as a thing of course, 
Are always haunted by remorse, — > 
Is the moral, I opine. 
Of the Legends of the Rhine. 



SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 

FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO 
I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL 

Affection's charm no longer gilds 

The idol of the shrine ; 
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill 

Regret's ambrosial wine. 
Though Friendship's offering buried lies 

'Neath cold Aversion's snow, 
E-egard and Faith will ever bloom 

Perpetually below, 

I see thee whirl in marble halls, 

In Pleasure's giddy train ; 
Kemorse is never on that brow, 

Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. 
Deceit has marked thee for her own i 

Inconstancy the same ; 
And E-uin wildly sheds its gleam 

Athwart thy path of shame. 

II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC 

The dews are heavy on my brow ; 

My breath comes hard and low ; 
Yet, mother dear, grant one request, 

Before your boy must go. 
Oh ! lift me ere my spirit sinks, 

And ere my senses fail. 



SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 

Place me once more, mother dear. 
Astride the old fence-rail. 

The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail ! 

How oft these youthful legs, 
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung 

Across those wooden pegs ! 
'T was there the nauseating smoke 

Of my first pipe arose : 

mother dear, these agonies 
Are far less keen than those. 

1 know where lies the hazel dell, 
Where simple Nellie sleeps ; 

I know the cot of Nettie Moore, 
And where the willow weeps. 

I know the brookside and the mill, 
But all their pathos fails 

Beside the days when once I sat 
Astride the old fence-rails. 



309 



III. SWISS AIR 

I 'm a gay tra, la, la, 
With my fal, lal, la, la, 
And my bright — 
And my light — 

Tra, la, le. [Repeat.] 

Then laugh, ha, ha, ha. 
And ring, ting, ling, ling. 
And sing fal, la, la. 

La, la, le. [Repeat.] 



VI. LITTLE POSTEEITY 

MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR 

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa 

and mamma moved in 
Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to 

begin ; 
For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I 

peeped through the slat. 
There were " Johnny-jump-ups " all around her, and I 

knew it was spring just by that. 

I never knew whether she saw me, for she did n't say 

nothing to me. 
But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy 

that is next door can see." 
But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know 

Mamma says I 've a ri^ht. 
And she calls out, " Well, peekin' is manners ! " and I 

answered her, " Sass is perlite ! " 

But I was n't a bit madj no. Papa, and to prove it, the very 

next day. 
When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to 

get in her way, — 
For you know I am " chunked '^ and clumsy, as she says 

are all boys of my size, — 
And she nearly upset me, she did, Pk, and laughed till tearsp 

came in her eyes. 



MASTER johnny's NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR 311 

And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew 

that slie told Kitty Sage, — 
And she was n't a girl that would flatter — " that she 

thought I was tall for my age." 
And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to 

ride on my sled, 
And — '' What am I telling you this for ? " Why, Papa, 

my neighbor is dead ! 

You don't hear one half I am saying, — I really do think 
it 's too bad ! 

Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and no- 
ticed to-day I 've been sad. 

And they 've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they 
have dressed her in white. 

And I 've never once looked through the fence. Pa, since 
she died — at eleven last night. 

And Ma says it 's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor 

and friend. 
That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that 

you ought to attend ; 
But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the 

way, 
And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I would n't 

know just what to say. 

So I think I will get up quite early, — I know I sleep late, 

but I know 
I '11 be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that 

I '11 tie to my toe ; 
And I '11 crawl through the fence, and I '11 gather the 

" Johnny -jump-ups • ' as they grew 
Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and. Papa, I '11 

give them to you. 



812 LITTLE POSTERITY 

For you 're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go 
just where you choose, 

And you '11 take the flowers in to her, and surely they 'U 
never refuse ; 

But, Papa, don't say they 're from Johnny ; they won't un- 
derstand, don't you see ? 

But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she '11 
know they 're from Me. 



MISS EDITH'S MODEST BEQUEST 

My Papa knows you, and he says you 're a man who makes 

reading for books ; 
But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa, — I know 

by his looks. 
So I guess you 're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I 

talk all the day, 
And they only say, " Do stop that child ! " or, " Nurse, 

take Miss Edith away." 

But Papa said if I was good I could ask you — alone by 

myself — 
If you would n't write me a book like that little one up on 

the shelf. 
I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make them 

you 've got to be smart •, 
But the reading that runs all around them, you know, — just 

the easiest part. 

You need n't mind what it 's about, for no one will see it 

but me. 
And Jane, — that 's my nurse, — and John, — he 's the 

coachman, — just only us three. 
You 're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and 

bold and all that ; 
And then you 're to write, if you please, something good — 

very good — of a cat ! 

This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her 

parents, and mild. 
And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was 

such a bad child ; 



814 LITTLE POSTERITY 

And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress 

— that 's me — was so bad, 
And blink, just as if she would say, '' Oh, Edith ! you 
make my heart sad." 

And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, 

angejic cat 
Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they 

said, she 'd get at. 
And when John drank my milk, — don't you tell me! I 

know just the way it was done, — 
They said 't was the cat, — and she sitting and washing her 

face in the sun ! 

And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its 

cage open one day. 
They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that 

the bird flew away. 
And why ? Just because she was playing with a feather 

she found on the floor. 
As if cats could n't play with a feather without peoplo 

thinking 't was more ! 

Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked 

down a vase from the shelf. 
That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it 

herself ; 
And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and nevei 

came out until tea, — 
So they say, for they sent me to bed, and she never came 

even to me. 

No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door o{ 

that cat. 
Why, once when I tore my apron, — she was wrapped in it^ 

and I called '' Eat ! " — 



MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST 315 

Why, they blamed that on her. I shall never — no, not to 

my dying day — 
Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped 

me and took me away. 

Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is 

as lovely as that : 
She wasted quite slowly away ; it was goodness was killing 

that cat. 
I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly 

nice ; 
But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad 

cold from the ice. 

And you '11 promise to make me a book like that little one 

up on the shelf, 
And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she 

just gave herself; 
For she 'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever 

I 'd call out, " Who 's there ? " 
She would answer, ''Naomi ! Naomi! " like a Christian, I 

vow and declare. 

And you'll put me and her in a book. And mind, you ^ re 

to say I was bad ; 
And I might have been badder than that but for the 

example I had. 
And you '11 say that she was a Maltese, and — what 's that 

you asked ? " Is she dead ? " 
Why, please, sir, there ainH any cat I You 're to make 

one up out of your head ] 



MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR 
BEOTHEK JACK 

*' Crying ! " Of course I am crying, and I guess you would 

be crying, too. 
If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, 

about you. 
Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you 

did n't care how, 
And get your brains softened like uncle's. Dr. Jones says 

you 're gettin' it now. 

Why don't you say " Stop ! " to Miss Ilsey ? She cries 

twice as much as I do. 
And she 's older and cries just from meanness, — for a 

ribbon or anything new. 
Ma says it 's her '' sensitive nature." Oh my ! No, I 

sha'n't stop my talk ! 
And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to 

go take a walk ! 

I know why you 're mad ! Yes, I do, now ! You think 

that Miss Ilsey likes you, 
And I've heard her repeatedly call you the bold-facest boy 

that she knew ; 
And she 'd " like to know where you learnt manners." Oh 

yes ! Kick the table, — that 's right ! 
Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma 

that I look like a fright ! 



MISS EDITH AND BROTHER JACK 317 

What stories ? Pretend you don't know that they 're say- 
ing I broke off the match 

*Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called 
him '^ Crosspatch/' 

When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, 
she 

Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, 
Jack, you said that to me. 

And it 's true ! But it 's me, and I 'm scolded, and Pa says 

if I keep on I might 
By and by get my name in the papers! Who cares? 

Why, 't.was only last night 
I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some 

lots, and it 's plain 
If it 's awful to be in the papers, why. Papa would go and 

complain. 

You think it ain't true about Ilsey ? Well, I guess I 

know girls, and I say 
There 's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, 

anyway ! 
I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat 

after one boy 
Goes and changes its name to another's. And she 's done 

it — and I wish you joy I 



MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FEIEND 

Op, you 're the girl lives on the corner ? Come in — if 

you want to — come quick ! 
There's no one but me in the house, and the cook — but 

she 's only a stick. 
Don't try the front way, but come over the fence — through 

the window — that 's how. 
Don't mind the big dog — he won't bite you — just see him 

obfiy me ! there, now ! 

What's your name ? Mary Ellen ? How funny ! Mine 's 

Edith — it 's nicer, you see ; 
But yours does for you, for you 're plainer, though maybe 

you 're gooder than me ; 
For Jack says I 'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all 

folks, need n't talk. 
For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the 

poor thing must "walk." 

Come in ! It 's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will 

keep the blinds down. 
For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she 

is n't as brown ; 
Though Jack says that is n't the reason she likes to sit 

here with Jim Moore. 
Do you think that he meant that she kissed him ? Would 

you — if your lips was n't sore ? 

If you like, you can try our piano. 'T ain't ours. A maD 

left it here 
To rent by the month, although Ma says he has n't been 

paid for a year. 



MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND 319 

Sister plays - — oh, such fine variations ! — why, I once 

heard a gentleman say 
That she did n't mind that for the music — in fact, it was 

just in her way ! 

AinH I funny ? And yet it 's the queerest of all thatj 

whatever I say, 
One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all 

look t'other way. 
And some say, " That child ! " Do they ever say that to 

such people as you ? 
Though maybe you 're naturally silly, and that makes your 

eyes so askew. 

Kow stop — don't you dare to be crying ! Just as sure as 

you live, if you do, 
I '11 call in my big dog to bite you, and I '11 make my Papa 

kill you, too ! 
And then where '11 you be ? So play pretty. There 's my 

doll, and a nice piece of cake. 
You don't want it — you think it is poison! Then J '11 

eat it, dear, just for your sake I 



WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FEOM HEB 
WINDOW 

Our window 's not much, though it fronts on the street ; 
There 's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat ; 
But it 's curious how people think it 's a treat 
For me to look out of the window ! 

Why, when company comes, and they 're all speaking low, 
With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, 

"Oh! 
Edith dear ! — that 's a good child — now run, love, 
and go 

And amuse yourself there at the window ! " 

Or Boh — that 's my hrother — comes in with his chum, 
And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will 

come. 
And it 's " Edith, look here ! Oh, I say ! what a rum 
Lot of things you can see from that window 1 " 

And yet, as I told you, there 's only that fly 

Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky, 
And the girl in the opposite window, that I 

Look at when she looks from her window. 

And yet, I 've been thinking I 'd so like to see 

If what goes on behind her, goes on behind me / 
And then, goodness gracious ! what fun it would be 
For us both as we sit by our window ! 



WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW 321 

How we M know when the parcels were hid in a drawer, 
Or things taken out that one never sees more j 
What people come in and go out of the door, 
That we never see from the window I 

Ajttd that night when the stranger came home with our Jane 
I might see what I heard then, that sounded so 

plain — 
Like when my wet fingers I ruh on the pane 

(Which they won't let me do on my window). 

And I 'd know why papa shut the door with a slam. 

And said something funny that sounded like *' jam,'' 
And then ^' Edith — where are you ? " I said, " Here 
I am.'' 

"Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window I " 

They say when I 'm grown up these things will appear 
More plain than they do when I look at them here, 
But I think I see some things uncommonly clear. 
As I sit and look down from the window. 

What things ? Oh, the things that I make up, you know, 
Out of stories I 've read — and they all pass below. 
Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row. 
Go by, as I look from my window. 

That 's only at church time ; other days there 's no crowd. 
Don't laugh I See that big man who looked up and 

bowed ? 
That 's our butcher — I call him the Sultan Mahoud 
When he nods to me here at the window ! 

And that man — he 's our neighbor — just gone for a ride 
Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side. 



322 LITTLE POSTERITY 

So I call him " Bluebeard" in search of his bride, 
While I 'm Sister Anne at the window. 

And what do I call you ? Well, here 's what 1 do : 

When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too; 
But I wait till you enter, to see if it 's you, 
And then — I just 02)en the window ! 

" Dear child ! '^ Yes, that 's me ! Oh, you ask what that *s 
for? 
Well, Papa says you 're " Poverty's self," and what 's 

more, 
I open the window, when you 're at the door, 
To see Love fly out of the window ! '' 



OK THE LANDING 
(an idyl of the balusters) 

Bobby, cBtat. 3J. Johnny, cetat. 4J. 

BOBBY 
Do you know why they 've put us in that back roonij 
Up in the attic, close against the sky, 
And made believe our nursery 's a cloak-room ? 

Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY 

No more I don^t, nor why that Sammy's mother, 
What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, 
Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other ! 

No more don't I ! 

BOBBY 

Do you know why Nurse says it is n't manners 
For you and me to ask folks twice for pie. 
And no one hits that man with two bananas ? 

Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY 

No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is 
Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die, 
When you and me gets croup when lue undresses I 

No more don't 1 1 



324 LITTLE POSTERITY 

BOBBY 
Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, 
And God don't want her up there in the sky, 
And lets her live — to come in just when pie is — 

Perhaps that 's why I 

JOHNNY 

Do you know why that man that 's got a cropped head 
Ruhhed it just now as if he felt a fly ? 
Could it he, Bobby, something that I dropded ? 

And is that why ? 

BOBBY 

Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded. 
Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by. 

JOHNNY {piously) 
Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head — 

But/sha'n'ttry! 

BOBBY 

Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling 
At you and me because we tells a lie, 
And she don't slap that man that called her darling ? 

Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY 

No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma 
Just kissed her hand. 

BOBBY 

She hurt it — and that 's why i 
He made it well, the very way that Mamma 

Does do to I. 



ON THE LANDING 325 

JOHNNY 
I feel so sleepy. . . . Was that Papa kissed us ? 
What made him sigh, and look up to the sky ? 

BOBBY 

We were n*t downstairs, and he and God had missed us, 

And that was why ! 



NOTES 

Page 106. The Lost Galleon. As the custom on which the central 
incident of this legend is based ma}'' not be familiar to all readers, I will 
repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their cal- 
endar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, 
adding a day in coming east ; and that the idea of the lost galleon had 
an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San 
Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations 
belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any 
reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient 
navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De 
Font^, the later voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. 
In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 
degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity 
before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substi- 
tuted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing 
the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of 
meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two 
hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and 
Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my 
readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss 
during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a 
vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of 
one. 

Page 280. The Pliocene Skull. This extraordinary fossil is in the pos- 
session of Prof. Josiah D. Whitney, of the State Geological Survey of 
California. The poem was based on the following paragraph from the 
daily press of 1866 : " A human skull has been found in California, in the 
pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant not only of the earliest 
pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being. . . . The skull 
was found in a shaft 150 feet deep, two miles from Angels in Calaveras 
County, by a miner named James Watson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a 
merchant, who gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological 
Survey. . . . The published volume of the State Survey of the Geology 
of California states that man existed here contemporaneously with the 
mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodo» was 
known to exist." 



DRAMA 

TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 



IBramatts persona 

** Sandy " . . . . Son of Alexander Morton, Sr. ^ The 

John Oakhurst ( His former partner, personat- > Prodigalt, 

\ ing the prodigal son, Sandy. * 
Col. Starbottle . Alexander Morton, Sr.'s legal adviser. 
Old Morton. . . Alexander Morton, Sr. 
Don Jos^ .... Father of Jovita Castro. 

Capper A detective. 

Concho Major-domo of Don Josh's rancho. 

York An old friend of Oakhurst. 

Pritchard . . . An Australian convict. 
Soapy ) „. , 

Silky j • • • • His pals. 

( Confidential clerk of Alexander Morton, Jr., an4 
Jackson .... J confederate of Pritchard. 

Hop Sing .... A Chinese laundryman. 

Servant of Alexander Morton, Sr. — Policemen. 

•mr. -^r »r i ^1x6 schoolmistrcss of Red Gulch, in love with San- 

Miss Mary Morris j ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^j^ ^^ Alexander Morton, Sr. 

Doi?A Jovita ( In love with John Oakhurst, and daughter of Don 

Castro . . . ( Jos^. 

( "Wife of Pritchard, illegally married to Sandy, and 
IHE Duchess . . ^ former « flame " of John Oakhurst. 
Manuela ... . Servant of Castro, and maid to Doila Jovita. 



ACT I 

THE BANCHO op THE BLESSED INNOCENTS, AND HOUSE OF DON JOS]fi 

CASTRO. 



ACTH 
RED GULCH. 



ACT in 

THE BANKING-HOUSE OF MORTON & SON, SAN FRANCISCO. 

ACT IV 
THE VILLA OF ALEXANDER MORTON, SEN., SAN FRANCISCO. 



COSTUMES 

Alexander Morton ("Sandy"). — First dress: Mexican vaquero: 
black velvet trousers open from knee, over white trousers ; laced black 
velvet jacket, and broad white sombrero : large silver spurs. Second 
dress : miner's white duck jumper, and white duck trousers ; (sailor's) 
straw hat. Third dress : fashionable morning costume. Fourth dress : 
full evening dress. 

John Oakhurst. — First dress : riding-dress, black, elegantly fitting. 
Second and third dress : fashionable. Fourth dress : full evening 
dress. 

Col. Starbottle. — First dress : blue double-breasted frock, and white 
"strapped" trousers ; white hat. Second dress: same coat, blue trou- 
sers, and black broad-brimmed felt hat; cane, semper ; mffies, semper. 
Third dress: the same. Fourth dress : the same, with pumps. 

York. — Fashionable morning dress. 

Jackson. — Business suit. 

Concho. — First dress : vaquero 's dress. Second dress: citizen's dress. 

Hop Sing. — Dress of Chinese coolie : dark-blue blouse, and dark-blue 
drawers gathered at ankles ; straw conical hat, and wooden sabots. 

Don Jos^. — First dress : serape, black, with gold embroidery. Second 
dress: fashionable suit, with broad-brimmed black stiff sombrero. 

Old Morton. — First, second, third, and fourth dress: black, stiff, with 
white cravat. 

Capper. — Ordinary dress of period. 

Miss Mary. — First dress : tasteful calico morning dress. Second and 
third dress : lady's walking-costume — fashionable. Fourth dress: full 
dress. 

"UoSTa Jovita. — First dress: handsome Spanish dress, with manta. 
Second dress : more elaborate, same quality. 

The Duchess. — First dress : elaborate but extravagant fashionable cos- 
tume. Second dress : travelling dress. 

Manuela.— The saya y manta; white waist, and white or black skir^ 
with flowers. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 
ACT I 

Scene 1. — Courtyard and Corridors of the Rancho. 

Manuela [arranging supper-table in corridor l., solus'\. 
There ! Tortillas, chocolate, olives, and — the whiskey of 
the Americans ! And supper 's ready. But why Don Jose 
chooses to-night, of all nights, with this heretic fog lying 
over the Mission Hills like a wet serape, to take his supper 
out here, the saints only know. Perhaps it 's some distrust 
of his madcap daughter, the Dona Jovita ; perhaps to watch 
her — who knows ? And now to find Diego. Ah, here he 
comes. So ! The old story. He is getting Dona Jovita's 
horse ready for another madcap journey. Ah ! \_Retires 
to table."] 

Enter cautiously from corridor ^ l., Sandy Morton, car- 
rying lady^s saddle and blanket ; starts on observing 
Manuela, and hastily hides saddle and blanket in re- 
cess. 

Sandy [aside]. She 's alone. I reckon the old man 's 
at his siesta yet. Ef he '11 only hang on to that snooze ten 
minutes longer, I Ul manage to let that gal Jovita slip out 
to that yer fandango, and no questions asked. 

Manuela [calling Sandy]. Diego ! 

Sandy [aside, without heeding her]. That's a sweet 
voice for a serenade. Bound, full, high-shouldered, and 
calkilated to fetch a man every time. Only thar ain't, to 
my sartain knowledge, one o' them chaps within a mile of 
the rancho. [Laughs,] 



334 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Manuela. Diego ! 

Sandy \_aside]. Oh, go on ! That 's the style o^ them 
Greasers. They ^11 stand rooted in their tracks, and yell 
for a chap without knowin^ whether he 's in sight or sound. 

Manuela \_approaching Sandy impatiently^. Diego ! 

Sandy [^starting) asidel. The devil ! Why, that 's me 
she 's after. \_Laughs.'] I clean disremembered that when 
I kem yer I tole those chaps my name was James, — James 
Smith [laughs~\, and thet they might call me " Jim." And 
De-a-go's their lingo for Jim. \_Aloud.~\ Well, my beauty, 
De-a-go it is. Kow, wot 's up ? 

Manuela, Eh ? no sabe ! 

Sandy. Wot 's your little game ? [^Embraces her."] 

Manuela [^aside, a7id recoiling coquettishly']. Mother 
of God ! He must be drunk again. These Americans have 
no time for love when they are sober. [^Aloud and coquet- 
tishly.'] Let me go, Diego. Don Jose is coming. He has 
sent for you. He takes his supper to-night on the corridor. 
Listen, Diego. He must not see you thus. You have 
been drinking again. I will keep you from him. I will 
say you are not well. 

Sandy. Could n't you, my darling, keep him from me ? 
Coiild n't you make him think he was sick ? Could n't 
you say he 's exposin' his precious health by sittin' out 
thar to-night ; thet ther 's chills and fever in every breath ? 
[^Aside.'] Ef the old Don plants himself in that chair, 
that gal's chances for goin' out to-night is gone up. 

Manuela. Never. He would suspect at once. Listen, 
Diego. If Don Jose does not know that his daughter 
steals away with you to meet some caballero, some lover, — 
you understand, Diego, — it is because he does not know, or 
would not seem to know, what every one else in the rancho 
knows. Have a care, foolish Diego ! If Don Jose is old 
»nd blind, look you, friend, we are not. You understand ? 

Sandy [^aside]. What the devil does she expect ? -• 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 835 

money ? No ! [^Aloud.^ Look yer, Manuela, you ain't 
goin' to blow on that young gal ! [^Putting his arm aj-ound 
her waist."] Allowin' that she hez a lover, thar ain't nothin' 
onnateral in thet, bein' a purty sort o' gal. Why, suppose 
somebody should see you and me together like this, and 
should just let on to the old man. 

Manuela. Hush ! \_Disengaging herself.'] Hush ! He 
is coming. Let me go, Diego. It is Don Jose ! 

Mnter Don Jose, who walks gravely to the table, and seats 
himself. Manuela retires to table. 

Sandy \_aside]. I wonder if he saw us. I hope he 
did : it would shut that Manuela's mouth for a month of 
Sundays. [^Laughs.] God forgive me for it ! I 've done 
a heap of things for that young gal Doiia Jovita ; but this 
yer gettin' soft on the Greaser maid-servant to help out 
the misses, is a little more than Sandy Morton bargained 
fur. 

Don Jose {to Manuela]. You can retire. Diego will 
attend me. {Looks at Diego attentively.] 

{Exit Manuela. 

Sandy {aside]. Diego will attend him ! Why, blast 
his yeller skin, does he allow that Sandy Morton hired out 
as a purty waiter-gal ? Because I calkilated to feed his 
horses, it ain't no reason thet my dooty to animals don't 
stop thar. Pass his hash ! {Turns to follow Manuela, 
hut stops.] Hello, Sandy ! wot are ye doin', eh ? You 
ain't going back on Miss Jovita, and jest spile that gal's 
chances to git out to-night, on'y to teach that God-forsaken 
old gov'ment mule manners ? No ! T. '11 humor the old 
man, and keep one eye out for the gal. {Comes to table, 
and leans familiarly over the hack of Don Jose's chair.] 

Don Jose {aside]. He seems insulted and annoyed. 
His manner strengthens my worst suspicions. He has not 
expected this. {Aloud.] Chocolate, Diego. 



336 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Sandy [leaning over table carelessly']. Yes, I reckon 
it 's somewhar thar. 

Don Jose \_aside.'\ He is unused to menial labor. If 
I should be right in my suspicions ! if he really were Dona 
Jovita's secret lover ! This gallantry with the servants 
only a deceit ! Bueno ! I will watch him. [Aloud.l 
Chocolate, Diego ! 

Sandy [aside]. I wonder if the old fool reckons I '11 pour 
it out. Well, seein 's he 's the oldest — [Pours choc- 
olaie awkwardly J and spills it on the table and Dox Jose.] 

Don Jose [aside]. He is embarrassed. I am right. 
[Aloud.] Diego ! 

Sandy [leaning confidentially over Don Jose's chair]. 
Well, old man ! 

Don Jose. Three months ago my daughter the Dona 
Jovita picked you up, a wandering vagabond, in the streets 
of the Mission. [Aside.] He does not seem ashamed. 
[Aloud.] She — she — ahem! The aguardiente, Diego. 

Sandy [aside]. That means the whiskey. It's won- 
derful how quick a man learns Spanish. [Passes the bot- 
tle^ fills Don Jose's glass, and then his own. Don Josb 
recoils in astonishment.] I looks toward ye, ole man. 
[Tosses off liquor,] 

Don Jose [aside]. This familiarity ! He is a gentle- 
man. Bueno ! [Aloud.] She was thrown from her horse ; 
her skirt caught in the stirrup ; she was dragged ; you saved 
her life. You — 

Sandy [interrupting, confidentially drawing a chair to 
the table, and seating himself']. Look yer ! I '11 tell you 
all about it. It wasn't that gal's fault, ole man. The 
boss shied at me, lying drunk in a ditch, you see ; the boss 
backed, the surcle broke ; it warn't in human natur for her 
to keep her seat, and that gal rides like an angel ; but the 
mustang throwed her. Well, I sorter got in the way o' 
thet boss, and it stopped. Hevin' bin the cause o' the boss 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 337 

shyin', for I reckon I did n't look much like an angel lyin' 
in that ditch, it was about the only squar thing for me to 
waltz in and help the gal. Thar, thet 's about the way the 
thing pints. Now, don't you go and hold that agin her ! 

Don Jose. Well, well ! She was grateful. She has a 
strange fondness for you Americans ; and at her solicitation 
I gave you — you, an unknown vagrant — employment here 
as groom. You comprehend, Diego. I, Don Jose Castro, 
proprietor of this rancho, with an hundred idle vaqueros on 
my hands, — I made a place for you. 

Sandy [meditatively']. XJmph. 

Don Jose. You said you would reform. How have you 
kept your word ? You were drunk last Wednesday. 

Sandy. Thet 's so. 

Don Jose. And again last Saturday. 

Sandy [slowly']. Look yer, ole man, don't ye be too 
hard on me : that was the same old drunk. 

Don Jose. I am in no mood for trifling. Hark ye, 
friend Diego. You have seen, perhaps, — who has not ? — 
that I am a fond, an indulgent father. But even my con- 
sideration for my daughter's strange tastes and follies has 
its limit. Your conduct is a disgrace to the rancho. You 
must go. 

Sandy [meditatively]. Well, I reckon, perhaps I'd 
better. 

Don Jose [aside]. His coolness is suspicious. Can it 
be that he expects the girl will follow him ? Mother of 
God ! perhaps it has been already planned between them. 
Good ! Thank Heaven I can end it here. [Aloud.] Diego ! 

Sandy. Old man. 

Don Jose. For my daughter's sake, you understand, — 
Tor her sake, — I am willing to try you once more. Hark 
ye ! My daughter is young, foolish and romantic. I have 
jreason to believe, from her conduct lately, that she has con- 
tracted an intimacy with some Americano, and that in her 



338 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

ignorance, her foolishness, she has allowed that man to be- 
lieve that he might aspire to her hand. Good ! Now listen 
to me. You shall stay in her service. You shall find out, 

— you are in her confidence, — you shall find out this 
American, this adventurer, this lover if you please, of the 
Dona Jovita my daughter ; and you will tell him this, — 
you will tell him tliat a union with him is impossible, for- 
bidden ; that the hour she attempts it, without my consent, 
she is penniless ; that this estate, this rancho, passes into 
the hands of the Holy Church, where even your laws can- 
not reach it. ^ 

Sandy [leaning familiarly over the table']. But sup: 
pose that he sees that little bluff, and calls ye. 

Don Jose. I do not comprehend you [coldly]. 

Sandy. Suppose he loves that gal, and will take her as 
she stands, without a cent, or hide or hair of yer old cattle. 

Don Jose [scornfully]. Suppose — a miracle ! Hark 
ye, Diego ! It is now five years since I have known your 
countrymen, these smart Americanos. I have yet to know 
when love, sentiment, friendship, was worth any more than 
a money value in your market. 

Sandy [truculently and drunlzenly]. You hev, hev ye ? 
Well, look yar, old man. Suppose I refuse. Suppose I 'd 
rather go than act as a spy on that young gal, your darter ! 
Suppose that — hie — allowin' she ^s my friend, I 'd rather 
starve in the gutters of the Mission than stand between her 
and the man she fancies. Hey ? Suppose I would — damn 
me ! Suppose I 'd see you and your derned old rancho in 

— t' other place — hie — damn me. You hear me, ole 
man ! That 's the kind o' man I am — damn me. 

Don Jose [aside, rising contemptuously]. It is as I 
suspected. Traitor — Ingrate ! Satisfied that his scheme 
has failed, he is ready to abandon her. And this — this is 
the man for whom she has been ready to sacrifice every 
thing, — her home, her father! [Aloud, coldly.] Be ii 
so, Diego : you shall go. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 339 

Sandy \_soherly and seriously, after a pause"]. Well, 
I reckon I had better. [^Rising.'] I've a few duds, old 
man, to put up. It won't take me long. \_Goes to l., and 
pauses."] 

Don Jose \_aside]. Ah ! he hesitates ! He is changing 
his mind. [Sandy returns slowly to table, pours out 
glass of liquor, nods to Don Jose, and drinks. ] I looks 
towards ye, ole man. Adios ! \^Exit Sandy. 

Don Jose. His coolness is perfect. If these Americans 
are cayotes in their advances, they are lions in retreat T 
Bueno ! I begin to respect him. But it will be just as 
well to set Concho to track him to the Mission ; and I will 
see that he leaves the rancho alone. \_Exit Jo^i>. 

Enter hurriedly Jovita Castro in riding habit, with 

whip. 

So ! Chiquita not yet saddled, and that spy Concho 
haunting the plains for the last half-hour. What an air 
of mystery ! Something awful, something deliciously dread- 
ful has happened ! Either my amiable drunkard has for- 
gotten to despatch Concho on his usual fool's errand, or he 
is himself lying helpless in some ditch. Was there ever a 
girl so persecuted ? With a father wrapped in mystery, a 
lover nameless and shrouded in the obscurity of some 
Olympian height, and her only confidant and messenger a 
Bacchus instead of a Mercury ! Heigh ho ! And in another 
hour Don Juan — he told me I might call him John — 
will be waiting for me outside the convent wall ! What 
if Diego fails me ? To go there alone would be madness I 
Who else would be as charmingly unconscious and inatten- 
tive as this American vagabond ! [^Goes to l.] Ah, my sad- 
dle and blanket hidden ! He has been interrupted. Some 
one has been watching. This freak of my father's means 
something. And to-night, of all nights, the night that 
Oakhurst was to disclose himself, and tell me all ! What 
is to be done ? Hark ! [Diego, without , singing."] 



840 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

" Oh, here's your aguardiente, 
Drink it down I " 

Jovita. It is Diego ; and Mother of God ! drunk again I 
JSnter Sandy, carrying pack, intoxicated ; staggers t9 

centre, and, observing Jovita, takes off his hat respect* 
fully, 

Jovita [shaking him by the shoulders passionately"^, 
Diego ! How dare you ! And at such a time ! 

Sandy [with drunken solemnity']. Miss Jovita, did 
ye ever know me to be drunk afore at such a time ? 

Jovita, No. 

Sandy. Zachy so. It 's abnormal. And it means — 
the game 's up. 

Jovita. I do not understand. For the love of God, 
Diego, be plain ! 

Sandy [solemnly and drunkenly"]. When I say your 
game 's up, I mean the old man knows it all. You 're 
blowed upon. Hearken, miss ! [Seriously and soberly. ^ 
Your father knows all that I know ; but, as it was n't my 
business to interfere with, I hev sorter helped along. He 
knows that you meet a stranger, an American, in these 
rides with me. 

Jovita [passionately"]. Ingrate ! You have not dared to 
tell him ! [Seizing him by the collar, and threatening hirry 
with the horsewhip).] 

Sandy [rising with half-drunken, half sober solemnity^^ 
One minit, miss ! one minit ! Don't ye ! don't ye do that ! 
Ef ye forget (and I don't blame ye for it), ef ye forget that 
I 'm a man, don't ye, don't ye forget that you 're a woman ! 
Sit ye down, sit ye down, so ! Now, ef ye '11 kindly re- 
member, miss, I never saw this yer man, yer lover. Ef 
ye '11 recollect, miss, whenever you met him, I allers hung 
back and waited round in the mission, or in the fields be- 
yond for ye, and allowed ye to hev your own way, it bein' 
no business o' mine. Thar is n't a man on the ranch, who, 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 341 

ef he 'd had a mind to watch ye, would n't hev known more 
about yer lover than I do. 

Jovita [aside'\. He speaks truly. He always kept in 
the background. Even Don Juan never knew that I had 
an attendant until I told him. [^Aloud."] I made a mis- 
take, Diego. I was hasty. What am I to do ? He is 
waiting for me even now. 

Sandy, Well [ivith drunken gravity^, ef ye can't go to 
him, I reckon it 's the squar thing for him to come to ye. 

Jovita, Recollect yourself, Diego. Be a man ! 

Sandy. Thash jus war I say. Let him be a man, and 
come to ye here. Let him ride up to this ranch like a 
man, and call out to yer father that he '11 take ye jist as 
ye are, without the land. And if the old man allows, rather 
than hev ye marry that stranger, he '11 give this yer place 
to the church, why, let him do it, and be damned. 

Jovita \j'ecoiling aside\ . So ! That is their plan. Don 
•lose has worked on Me fears or the cupidity of this drunken 
ingrate. 

Sandy \with drunken submission']. Ye was speaking 
to me, miss. Ef ye '11 take my advice, — a drunken man's 
advice, miss, — ye '11 say to that lover of yours, ef he 's 
afeard to come for ye here, to take ye as ye stand, he ain't 
no man for ye. And ontil he does, ye '11 do as the ole man 
says. Fur ef I do say it, miss, — and thar ain't no love 
lost between us, — he 's a good father to ye. It ain't every 
day that a gal kin afford to swap a father like that, as she 
ioes knoWy fur the husband that she donH ! He 's a proud 
old fool, miss ; but to ye, to ye, he 's clar grit all through. 

Jovita [^passionatelyf a^ide']. Tricked, fooled, like a 
child ! and through the means of this treacherous, drunken 
tool. [^Stamping her foot.] Ah! we shall see! You are 
wise, you are wise, Don Jose5 ; but your daughter is not a 
novice, nor a helpless creature of the Holy Church. [P«s- 
$ionately.] I '11 — I '11 become a Protestant to-morrow 1 



342 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Sandy [unheeding her passiony and becoming more 
e(trnesf and self-possessed']. Ef ye hed a father, miss, ez 
instead o' harkinin' to your slightest wish, and surroundin' 
ye with luxury, hed made your infancy a struggle for life 
among strangers, and your childhood a disgrace and a tempta- 
tion ; ef he had left ye with no company but want, with 
no companions but guilt, with no mother but suffering ; ef 
he had made your home, this home, so unhappy, so terrible, 
so awful, that the crowded streets and gutters of a great 
city was something to fly to for relief ; ef he had made 
his presence, his very name, — your name, miss, allowin' it 
was your father, -— ef he had made that presence so hateful, 
that name so infamous, that exile, that flyin' to furrin' 
parts, that wanderin' among strange folks ez did n't know 
ye, was the only way to make life endurable ; and ef he 'd 
given ye, — I mean this good old man Don Josci, miss, — ef 
he 'd given ye as part of yer heritage a taint, a weakness 
in yer very blood, a fondness for a poison, a poison that 
soothed ye like a vampire bat and sucked yer life-blood 
[seizing her arm] ez it soothed ye ; ef this curse that hung 
over ye dragged ye down day by day, till hating him, 
loathing him, ye saw yerself day by day becoming more and 
more like him, till ye knew that his fate was yours, and 
yours his, — why then. Miss Jovita [rising with an hys^ 
terical drunken laugh], why then, I 'd run away with ye 
myself, — I would, damn me ! 

Jovita [who has been withdrawing from him scornfully]. 
Well acted, Diego. Don Jose should have seen his pupil. 
Trust me, my father will reward you. [Aside.] And yet 
there were tears in his drunken eyes. Bah ! it is the liquor : 
he is no longer sane. And, either hypocrite or imbecile, 
he is to be trusted no longer. But where and why is he 
going ? - [Aloud.] You are leaving us, Diego. 

Sandy [quietly]. Well, the old man and me don't get 
%n together. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 343 

Jovita [scornfully']. Bueno ! I see. Then you abandon 
me? 

Sandy \_quicldy']. To the old man, miss, — not the 
young one. [ Walks to the table and begins to jpour out 
liquor. ~\ 

Jovita \_angrily~\. You would not dare to talk to me thus, 
if John Oakhurst — ah ! [Checking herself.'] 

Sandy [drojys glass on table, hurries to centre, and seizes 
Do5fA Jovita]. Eh ! Wot ! Wot name did you say ? 
[Looks at her amazed and bewildered.] 

Jovita [terrified, aside]. Mother of God ! What have 
I done ? Broken my sacred pledge to keep his name secret. 
Xo ! No ! Diego did not hear me ! Surely this wretched 
drunkard does not know him. [Aloud.] Nothing. I said 
nothing : I mentioned no name. 

Sandy [still amazed, frightened, and bewildered, pass- 
ing his hand over his forehead slowly]. Ye mentioned no 
name? Surely. I am wild, crazed. Tell me, miss — ye 
didn't, — I know ye didn't, but I thought it sounded like 
it, — ye didn't mention the name of — of — of — John 
Oakhurst ? 

Jovita [hurriedly], No, of course not ! You terrify 
ine, Diego. You are wild. 

Sandy [dropjnng her hand with a sigh of relief]. No, 
no ! In course ye didn't. I was wild, miss, wild ; this 
drink has confused me yer. [Pointing to his head.] There 
are times when I hear that name, miss, — times when I see 
his face. [Sadly.] But it's when I've took too much — • 
too much. I '11 drink no more — no more ! — to-night — ■ 
to-night ! [Drops his head slowly in his hands.] 

Jovita [looking at Diego — aside]. Keally, I 'm feeling 
very uncomfortable. I 'd like to ask a question of this 
maniac. But nonsense ! Don Juan gave me to understand 
Oakhurst was n't his real name ; that is, he intimated there 
Jiras something dreadful and mysterious about it that mustn't 



344 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

be told, — something that would frighten people. ITol'g 
Virgin ! it has ! Why, this reckless vagabond here is pale 
and agitated. Don Juan shall explain this mystery to-night. 
But then, how shall 1 see him ? Ah, I have it. The night 
of the last festa, when I could not leave the rancho, he begged 
me to show a light from the flat roof of the upper corridor, 
that he might know I was thinking of him, — dear fellow ! 
He will linger to-night at the Mission ; he will see the 
light ; he will know that I have not forgotten. He will 
approach the rancho ; I shall manage to slip away at mid- 
night to the ruined Mission. I shall — ah, it is my father ! 
Holy Virgin, befriend me now with self-possession, \_Sta71d8 
quietly at l., looking toward Sandy, Vfho still remains 
buried in thought ^ as — 

Enter Don Jos]^ ; regards his daughter and Diego with 
a sarcastic smile. 

Don Jose [aside], Bueno I It is as I expected, — 
an cKplanation, an explosion, a lover's quarrel, an end to 
romance. From his looks I should say she has been teach- 
ing the adventurer a lesson. Good ! I could embrace her I 
[Crosses to Sandy — aloud.] You still here ! 

Sandy [rising with a start]. Yes ! I — a — I was 
only taking leave of Miss Jovita that hez bin kind to me. 
She 's a good gal, ole man, and won't be any the worse when 
I 'm gone. — Good-by, Miss Jovita [extending his hand] t 
I wish ye luck. 

Jovita [coldly]. Adios, friend Diego. [Aside, hurriedly."] 
You will not expose my secret ? 

Sandy [aside]. It ain't in me, miss. [To Don Josi, 
going.] Adios, ole man. [Shouldering his pack.] 

Don Jose. Adios, friend Diego. [Formally.] May 
good luck attend you! [Aside.] You understand, on 
your word as — as — as — a gentleman! — you have no 
further communication with this rancho, or aught that it 
contains. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 345 

Sandy [^gravely"]. I hear ye, ole man. Adios. \^Goes 
to gateway, but pauses at table, and begins to fill a glass 
of aguardiente.'] 

Don Jose [aside, looking at his daughter.] I could 
embrace her now. She is truly a Castro. \_Aloud to 
JoviTA.] Hark ye, little one ! I have news that will please 
you, and - — who knows ? — perhaps break up the monotony 
of the dull life of the rancho. To-night come to me two 
famous caballeros, Americanos, you understand : they will 
be here soon, even now. Ketire, and make ready to receive 
them. \_Exit Jovita.] 

Don Jose [aside, looking at Sandy]. He lingers. I 
shall not be satisfied until Concho has seen him safely 
beyond the Mission wall. 

Enter Concho. 

Concho. Two caballeros have dismounted in the corral 
and seek the honor of Don Jose''s presence. 

Don Jose. Bueno ! [Aside.] Follow that fellow 
beyond the Mission. [Aloud.] Admit the strangers. 
Did they give their names ? 

Concho. They did, Don Jos^, — Colon si Culpepper Star- 
bottle and the Don Alexandre Morton. 

Sandy [dropping glass of aguardiente, and staggering 
stupidly to the centre, confronting Don Jose and Con- 
cho, still holding bottle]. Eh ! Wot ? Wot name did 
you say ? [Looks stupidly and amasedly at Concho and 
Don Jose, and then sloiuly passes his hand over his fore- 
head. Then slowly and apologetically.] I axes your 
pardon, Don Jose, and yours, sir [to Concho], but I 
thought ye called me. No ! — that ez — I mean — I mean 
— I'm a little off color here [pointing to his head]. I 
don't follow suit — I — eh — eh ! Oh ! — ye '11 pardon 
me, sir, but thar 's names — perhaps yer darter will remem- 
ber that I was took a bit ago on a name — thar 's names 



S46 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

sorter hangin' round me yer \_pointing to his head'], that 
I thinks I hear — but bein' drunk — I hopes ye '11 excoos 
me. Adios. [^Staggers to gateway, Con cno following.'] 
Concho \_aside]. There is something more in this than 
Don Josd would have known. I '11 watch Diego, and keep 
an eye on Miss Jovita too. 

Exit, following Sandy, who, in exit, jostles against Col. 
Starbottle entering, who stops and leans exhaustedhj 
at the wall to get his breath ; folloiving him closely, 
and oblivious of Sandy Morton, Alexander Mor= 
TON, Sr. Enter Col. Starbottle and Alexander 
Morton, Sr. 

Scene 2. — The Same. 

CoL Starbottle \_entering, to Don Jose]. Overlooking 
the insult of — er — er — inebriated individual, v/hose 
menial position in this — er — er — household precludes a 
demand for personal satisfaction, sir, I believe I have the 
honor of addressing Don Jose' Castro. Very good, sir. 
Permit me, sir, to introduce myself as Colonel Culpepper 
Starbottle — demn me ! the legal adviser of Mr. Alexander 
Morton, Sr., and I may add, sir, the friend of that gentle- 
man, and as such, sir — er — er — personally — personally 
responsible. 

Alexander Morton [^puritanically and lugubriously]. 
As a God-fearing and forgiving Christian, Mr. Castro, I 
trust you will overlook the habitual profanity of the erring 
but well-meaning man, who, by the necessities of my situa- 
tion, accompanies me. I am the person — a helpless sinner 
— mentioned in the letters which I believe have preceded 
me. As a professing member of the Cumberland Presby^ 
terian Church, I have ventured, in the interest of works 
rather than faith, to overlook the plain doctrines of the 
church in claiming sympathy of a superstitious papist. 

Starbottle [interrupting ^ aside to Alexander Mob* 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 347 

ton]. Ahem ! ahem ! \_Aloud to Don Jos:6.] My 
friend's manner, sir, reminds me of — er — er -— Kam Boot- 
gum Sing, first secretary of Turkish legation at Washington 
in '45 ; most remarkable man — demn me — most remark- 
able — and warm personal friend. Challenged Tod Robin- 
son for putting him next to Hebrew banker at dinner, with 
remark — demn me — that they were both believers in the 
profit ! he, he ! Amusing, perhaps ; irreverent, certainly. 
Fought with scimitars. Second pass, Kam divided Tod in 
two pieces — fact, sir — just here \_jpointing'\ in — er — er 
— region of moral emotions. Upper half called to me, — 
said to me warningly — last words — never forget it, — 
" Star," — always called me Star, — " respect man's reli- 
gious convictions." Legs dead ; emotion confined to upper 
part of body — pathetic picture. Ged, sir, something to be 
remembered ! 

Don Jose [with grave Spanish courtesy']. You are 
welcome, gentlemen, to the rancho of the Blessed Fisher- 
man. Your letters, with their honorable report, are here. 
Believe me, seiiores, in your modesty you have forgotten to 
mention your strongest claim to the hospitality of my house, 
— ■ the royal right of strangers. 

Morton. Angels before this have been entertained as 
strangers, says the Good Book ; and that, I take it, is your 
authority for this ceremoniousness which else were but lip- 
service and papist airs. But I am here in the performance 
of a duty, Mr. Castro, — the duty of a Christian father. I 
am seeking a prodigal son. I am seeking him in his wine- 
husks and among his harl — 

Starhottle [interrupting']. A single moment. [To 
Don Jose.] Permit me to — er — er — explain. As my 
friend Mr. Morton states, we are, in fact, at present en- 
gaged in — er — er — quest — er — pilgrimage that possibly 
to some, unless deterred by considerations of responsibility 
*- personal responsibility, sir — Ged, sir, might be looked 



348 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

upon ag visionary, enthusiastic, sentimental, fanatical. We 
are seeking a son, or, as my friend tersely and scripturally 
expresses it — er — er — prodigal son. I say scripturally, 
sir, and tersely, but not, you understand it, literally, nor 
I may add, sir, legally. Ged, sir, as a precedent, I admit 
"we are wrong. To the best of my knowledge, sir, the — er 

— Prodigal Son sought his own father. To be frank, sir, 

— and Ged, sir, if Culpepper Starbottle has a fault, it is 
frankness, sir. ... As Nelse Buckthorne said to me in Nash- 
ville, in '47, " You would infer, Colonel Starbottle, that I 
equivocate." I replied, " I do, sir ; and permit me to add 
that equivocation has all the guilt of a lie, with cowardice 
superadded." The next morning at nine o'clock, Ged, sir, 
he gasped to me — he was lying on the ground, hole through 
his left lung just here \illustrati71g with Don Jose's coa^], 

— he gasped, " If you have a merit. Star, above others, it is 
frankness!" his last words, sir, — demn me. ... To be 
frank, sir, years ago, in the wild exuberance of youth, the 
son of this gentleman left his — er — er — er — boyhood's 
home, owing to an innocent but natural misunderstanding 
with the legal protector of his youth — 

Morton [^interrupting gravely and demurely^ Driven 
from home by my own sinful and then unregenerate hand — 

Starbottle [quickly']. One moment, a simple moment. 
We will not weary you with — er — er — history, or the 
vagaries of youth. He — er — came to California in '49. 
A year ago, touched by — er — er — parental emotion and 
solicitude, my friend resolved to seek him here. Believ- 
ing that the — er — er — lawlessness of — er — er — un- 
trammeled youth and boyish inexperience might have led 
him into some trifling indiscretion, we have sought him suc- 
cessively in hospitals, almshouses, reformatories. State's 
prisons, lunatic and inebriate asylums, and — er — er — 
even on the monumental inscriptions of the — er — er — 
country churchyards. We have thus far^ I grieve to say, 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 349 

although acquiring much and valuable information of a varied 
character and interest, as far as the direct matter of our 
search, — we have been, I think I may say, unsuccessful. 
Our search has been attended with the — er — disburse- 
ment of some capital under my — er — er — direction, 
which, though large, represents quite inadequately the — 
er — er — earnestness of our endeavors. 

Enter !Manuela. 

Manuela [to Don Jos^]. The Dona Jovita is waiting 
to receive you. 

Don Jose \to Morton]. You shall tell me further 
of your interesting pilgrimage hereafter. At present my 
daughter awaits us to place this humble roof at your dis- 
posal. I am a widower, Don Alexandro, like yourself. 
When I say that, like you, I have an only child, and that 1 
love her, you will understand how earnest is my sympathy. 
This way, gentlemen. [Leading to door in corridor, and 
awaiting them.'] 

Starhottle [aside']. Umph ! an interview with lovely 
woman means — er — intoxication, but — er — er — no 
liquor. It 's evident that the Don does n't drink. Eh ! 
[Catches sight of table in corridor, and bottle.'] Oh, he 
does, but some absurd Spanish formality prevents his doing 
the polite thing before dinner. [Aloud, to Don Jose.] 
One moment, sir, one moment. If you will — er — er — 
pardon the — er — seeming discourtesy, for which I am, I 
admit — er — personally responsible, I will for a few mo- 
ments enjoy the — er — er — delicious air of the courtyard, 
and the beauties of Kature as displayed in the — er — sun- 
set. I will — er — rejoin you and the — er — er — ladies 
a moment later. 

Don Jose. The house is your own, seiior : do as you 
will. This way, Don Alexandro. ^ 

[UiKit, in door L., Don Jose and Morton, Sr.] 



350 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Starhottle. " Do as you will." Well, I don't under- 
stand Spanish ceremony, but that 's certainly good English. 
\_Going to table.'] Eh! \_SmeUing decantG7\~\ Eobinson 
County whiskey ! Umph ! I have observed that the 
spirit of American institutions, sir, are already penetrating 
the — er — er — superstitions of — er — foreign and effete 
civilizations. \_Pours out glass of tvhiskey and drinks ; 
fours again, and observes Manuela watching him respect- 
fully.'] What the devil is that girllooking at ? Eh! \_Puts 
down glass.] 

Manuela \_aside]. He is fierce and warlike. Mother of 
God ! But he is not so awful as that gray -haired caballero, 
who looks like a fasting St. Anthony. And he loves 
aguardiente : he will pity poor Diego the more. \_Aloud.] 
Ahem! Sefior. \_Courtesies coquettishly.] 

Col. Starbottle \_aside]. Oh, I see. Ged ! not a bad- 
looking girl, — a trifle dark, but Southern, and — er — 
tropical. Ged, Star, Star, this won't do, sir : no, sir. The 
filial affections of ^neas are not to be sacrificed through 
the blandishments of — er — Dodo — I mean a Dido. 

Manuela. senor, you are kind, you are good ! You 
are an Americano, one of a great nation. You will feel 
sympathy for a poor young man, — a mere muchacho, — one 
of your own race, who was a vaquero here, seiior. He has 
been sent away from us here disgraced, alone, hungry, per- 
haps penniless. [ Wipes her eyes.] 

Col. Starbottle. The devil ! Another prodigal. 
[_Aloud.] My dear, the case you have just stated would 
appear to be the — er — er — normal condition of the — 
er — youth of America. But why was he discharged ? 
[^Pouring out liquor.] 

Manuela \_demurely glancing at the colonel]. He wae 
drunk, senor. 

Starbottle \_potently]. Drunkenness, my child, which is 
— er — weakness in the — er — er — gentleman, in the 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 351 

Bubordinate is a crime. "What — er — excites the social 
impulse and exhilarates the fancy of the — er — master of 
the house, in the performance of his duty, renders the ser- 
vant unfit for his. Legally it is a breach of contract. I 
should give it as my opinion, — for which I am personally 
responsible, — that your friend Diego could not recover. 
Ged ! l^Aside.^ I wonder if this scapegoat could be our 
black sheep. 

Manuela. But that was not all, senor. It was an ex- 
cuse only. He was sent away for helping our young lady 
to a cavalier. He was discharged because he would not be 
a traitor to her. He was sent away because he was too 
good, too honorable, — too — \_Bursts out cryiiig.'] 

Starhottle \_aside]. Oh, the devil ! this is no Sandy 
Morton. [^Coming forward gravely.'] I have never yet 
analyzed the — er — er — character of the young gentleman 
I have the honor to assist in restoring to his family and 
society ; but judging — er — calmly — er — dispassionately, 
my knowledge of his own father — from what the old gen- 
tleman must have been in his unregenerate state, and know- 
ing what he is now in his present reformed Christian condi- 
tion, I should say calmly and deliberately that the son must 
be the most infernal and accomplished villain unhung. Ged, 
I have a thought, an inspiration. [To Manuela, tapping 
her under the chin.'] I see, my dear ; a lover, ha, ha ! 
Ah, you rogue ! Well, well, we will talk of this again. I 
will — er — er — interest myself in this Diego. [_Exit 
Manuela.] 

Starhottle [^solus]. How would it do to get up a prodi- 
gal ? Umph. Something must be done soon : the old man 
grows languid in his search. My position as a sinecure is 
— er — in peril. A prodigal ready-made ! But could I 
get a scoundrel bad enough to satisfy the old man ? Ged, 
that 's serious. Let me see : he admits that he is unable to 
recognize his own son in face, features, manner, or speech. 



352 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAB 

Good ! If I could pick up some rascal whose — er — irregU' 
larities did n't quite fill the bill, and could say — Ged ! — 
that he was reforming. Eeforming ! Ged, Star ! That 
very defect would show the hereditary taint, demn me ! 
I must think of this seriously. Ged, Star ! the idea is — 
an inspiration of humanity and virtue. Who knows ? it 
might be the saving of the vagabond, — a crown of glory to 
the old man's age. Inspiration, did I say ? Ged, Star, it 's 
a dutyf — a sacred, solemn duty, for which you are respon- 
sible, — personally responsible. 

Lights down half. Enter from corridor L., Mokton, 
Don Jose, the Dona Jovita, and Manuela. 

Dona Jovita \_stepping forward with exaggerated Span- 
ish courtesy']. A thousand graces await your Excellency, 
Commander Don — Don — 

Starhottle [bowing to the ground with equal delight and 
exaggerated courtesy']. Er — Coolpepero ! 

Dona Jovita. Don Culpepero ! If we throw ourselves 
unasked at your excellency's feet \_courtesy], if we appear 
unsought before the light of your excellency's eyes [cour- 
tesy], if we err in maidenly decorum in thus seeking unbid- 
den your excellency's presence [courtesy], believe us, it is 
the fear of some greater, some graver indecorum in our 
conduct that has withdrawn your excellency's person from 
us since you have graced our roof with your company. We 
know, Seiior Commander, how superior are the charms of the 
American ladies. It is in no spirit of rivalry with them, 
but to show — Mother of God ! — that we are not abso- 
lutely ugly, that we intrude upon your excellency's sol- 
itude. [Aside.] I shall need the old fool, and shall use 
him. 

Col. Starhottle [who has been boiving and saluting with 
equal extravagance, during this speech — aside]. Ged ! 
she is beautiful! [Aloud.] Permit me er — er — Dona 
Jovita, to correct — Ged, I must say it, correct erroneous 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 353 

statements. The man who should — er — utter in my 
presence remarks, disparaging those — er — charms it is my 
privilege to behold, I should hold responsible, — Ged ! per- 
sonally responsible. You — er — remind me of er — inci- 
dent, trifling perhaps, but pleasing, Charleston in '52, — a 
reception at John C. Calhoim's. A lady, one of the demned- 
est beautiful women you ever saw, said to me, " Star ! " 
— she always called me Star, — *' you've avoided me, 
you have, Star ! I fear you are no longer my friend." — 
" Your friend, madam," I said. *' No, I 've avoided you 
because I am your lover." Ged, Miss Jovita, a fact — demn 
me. Sensation. Husband heard garbled report. He was 
old friend, but jealous, rash, indiscreet. Fell at first fire — — 
umph — January 6th. Lady — beautiful woman — never 
forgave : went into convent. Sad affair. And all a mis- 
take, — demn me, — all a mistake, though perhaps extra- 
vagant gallantry and compliment. I lingered here, oblivious 
perhaps of — er — beauty, in the enjoyment of Kature. 

Dona Jovita. Is there enough for your excellency to 
share with me, since it must be my rival ? See, the fog is 
clearing away : we shall have moonlight. [Don Jose and 
Morton seat themselves at table.'] Shall we not let these 
venerable caballeros enjoy their confidences and experiences 
together ? '[Aside.] Don Jose watches me like a fox, 
does not intend to lose sight of me. How shall I show the 
light three times from the courtyard roof ? I have it ! 
[Takes Starbottle's arm.] It is too pleasant to with- 
draw. There is a view from the courtyard wall your excel- 
lency should see. Will you accompany me ? The ascent 
is easy. 

Stai'hottle [howing]. I will ascend, although, permit me 
to say, Dona Jovita, it would be — er — impossible for me 
to be nearer — er — heaven, than — er — at present. 

Dona Jovita. Flatterer! Come, you shall tell me 
about this sad lady who died. Ah, Don Culpepero, let me 



854 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

hope all your experiences will not be so fatal to us ! [jE'av 
eunt Dona Jo vita and Starbottle.] 

Morton \_aside~\, A froward daughter of Baal, and, if I 
mistake not, even now concocting mischief for this foolish, 
indulgent, stiff-necked father. \_Aloud.~\ Your only daugh- 
ter, I presume. 

Don Jose. My darling, Don Alexandro. Motherless 
from her infancy. A little wild, and inclined to gayety, 
but I hope not seeking for more than these walls afford. I 
have checked her but seldom, Don Alexandro, and then I 
did not let her see my hand on the rein that held her back. 
I do not ask her confidence always : I only want to know 
that when the time comes it can be given to me without 
fear. 

Morton. Umph ! 

Don Jose [leaning forward confidentially']' To show 
that you have not intrusted your confidence regarding your 
wayward son -v— whom may the saints return to you ! — to 
unsympathetic or inexperienced ears, I will impart a secret. 
A few weeks ago I detected an innocent intimacy between 
this foolish girl and a vagabond vaquero in my employ. 
You understand, it was on her part romantic, visionary ; on 
his, calculating, shrewd, self-interested, for he expected to 
become my heir. I did not lock her up. I did not tax her 
with it. I humored it. To-day I satisfied the lover that 
his investment was not profitable, that a marriage without 
my consent entailed the loss of the property and then left 
them together. They parted in tears, think you, Don Alex- 
andro ? No, but mutually hating each other. The ro- 
mance was over. An American would have opposed the 
girl, have driven her to secrecy, to an elopement perhaps. 
Eh? 

Morton [scornfully']. And you believe that they have 
abandoned their plans ? 

Don Jose. I am sure — hush ! she is here I 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 355 

Enter on roof of corridor, Starbottle and Jovjta. 

Col. Starbottle. E-eally, a superb landscape ! An admir- 
able view of the — er — fog — rolling over the Mission 
Hills, the plains below, and the — er — er — single figure 
of — er — motionless horseman — 

Dona Jovita \_quiGkly~\. Some belated vaquero. Do 
you smoke, SeJQor Commander ? * 

Starbottle. At times. 

Dona Jovita. With me. I will light a cigarette for 
you : it is the custom. 

Col. Starbottle draws match from his ^oclzet, and is 
about to light, but is stopped by Dona Jovita. 

Dona Jovita. Pardon, your excellency, but we cannot 
endure your American matches. There is a taper in the 
passage. 

Col. Starbottle brings taper : Dona Jovita turns 
to light cigarette but manages to blow out candle. 

Dona Jovita. I must try your gallantry again. That is 
once I have failed. \_Significantly.~\ 
Col. Starbottle relights candle, business, same results. 

Dona Jovita. I am stupid and nervous to-night. I 
have failed tivice. [ With emphasis. 2 
^OL. Starbottle repeats business with candle. Dona 
Jovita lights cigarette, hands it to the colonel. 

Dona Jovita. Thrice, and I have succeeded. \_Bloics out 
candle. ] 

Col. Sta,rbottle. A thousand thanks ! There is a — er 
— er — light on the plain. 

Dona Jovita [hastily']. It is the vaqueros returning. 
My father gives a festa to peons in honor of your arrival. 
There will be a dance. You have been patient, Seiior Com* 
mander : you shall have my hand for a waltz. 

Enter vaqxieros, their wives and daughters. A dance, 
during which the " sembi canca " is danced by Col. 



356 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAB 

Starbottle and Dona Jovita. Business, during 
which the hell of Mission Churchy faintly illuminated^ 
beyond the wall, strikes twelve. Dancers withdraw hur- 
riedly, leaving alone Manuela, Dona Jovita, Col, 
Starbottle, Don Jose, and Concho. Concho for- 
inally hands keys to Don Josi^. 

Don Jose [^delivering keys to Morton with stately iw- 
pressiveness"]. Take them, Don Alexandre Morton, and 
with them all that they unlock for bliss or bale. Take 
them, noble guest, and with them the homage of this family, 
— to-night, Don Alexandro, your humble servants. Good- 
night, gentlemen. May a thousand angels attend you, O 
Don Alexandro, and Don Culpepero ! 

Dona Jovita. Good-night, Don Alexandro. May your 
dreams to-night see all your wishes fulfilled ! Good-night, 

Senor Commander. May she you dream of be as happy 
as you ! 

Manuela and Concho [together"^. Good-night, sefiores 
and illustrious gentlemen ! May the Blessed Fisherman 
watch over you 1 [Both parties retreat into opposite cot' 
ridorsj bowing. ~\ 

Manuela. Concho. Morton. 

Don Jose. Jovita. Starbottle, 

Scene 3. — The same. Stage darkened. Fog passing 
beyond wall outside, and occasionally obscuring moonlit 
landscape beyond. Enter Jovita softly, from corridor 
L. Her face is partly hidden by Sjjanish mantilla. 

Jovita. All quiet at last ; and, thanks to much aguar- 
diente, my warlike admirer snores peacefully above. Yet 

1 could swear I heard the old Puritan's door creak as I 
descended! Pshaw! What matters! [Goes to gateway^ 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 357 

wad tries gate.'] Locked ! Carramba ! I see it now. 
Under the pretext of reviving the old ceremony, Don Jos^ 
has locked the gates, and placed me in the custody of his 
guest. Stay ! There is a door leading to the corral from 
the passage by Concho's room. Bueno ! Don Josd shall 
see I \_Exit r.] 

Enter cautiously r. Old Morton. 

Old Morton, I was not mistaken ! It was the skirt of 
that Jezebel daughter that whisked past my door a moment 
ago, and her figure that flitted down that corridor. So ! 
The lover driven out of the house at four p. m., and at 
twelve o'clock at night the young lady trying the gate 
secretly. This may be Spanish resignation and filial sub- 
mission, but it looks very like Yankee disobedience and for- 
wardness. Perhaps it 's well that the keys are in my pocket. 
This fond confiding papist may find the heretic American 
father of some service. [Conceals himself behind pillar 
of corridor, ~\ 

After a pause the head of John Oakhurst appears over 
the wall of corridor : he climbs up to roof of corri- 
dor , and descends very quietly and deliberately to 
stage, 

Oakhurst \_dusting his clothing with his handkerchief]. 
i never knew before why these Spaniards covered their 
adobe walls with whitewash. \^Leans against pillar in 
shadow.] 

Re-enter Jovita, hastily, 

Jovita. All is lost ; the corral door is locked ; the key 
is outside, and Concho is gone, — gone where ? Madre di 
Dios ! to discover, perhaps to kill him. 

Oakhurst \_opproaching her]. Ko. 

Jovita. Juan ! [^Embracing him.] But how did you 
get here ? This is madness ! 



358 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Oakhurst. As you did not come to the Mission, I came 
to the rancho. I found the gate locked — by the way, is 
not that a novelty here ? — I climbed the wall. But you, 
Miss Castro, you are trembling ! Your little hands are 
cold! 

Jovita [_glancing aroitnd~\. Nothing, nothing ! But you 
are running a terrible risk. At any moment we may be 
discovered. 

Oakhurst. I understand you : it would be bad for the 
discoverer. Never fear, I will be patient. 

Jovita. But I feared that you might meet Concho. 

Oakhurst. Concho — Concho — \meditatively~\. Let 
me see, — tall, dark, long in the arm, weighs ^bout one 
hundred and eighty, and active. 

Jovita. Yes ; tell me ! You have met him ? 

Oakhurst. Possibly, possibly. Was he a friend of 
yours ? 

Jovita. No ! 

Oakhurst. That 's better. Are his pursuits here seden- 
tary, or active ? 

Jovita. He is my father's major-domo. 

Oakhurst. I see : a sinecure. \_Aside.'\ Well, if he 
has to lay up for a week or two, the rancho won't suffer. 

Jovita. Well? 

Oakhurst. Well ! 

Jovita [passionately']. There, having scaled the wall, 
at the risk of being discovered — this is all you have to say 1 
\_Turning away.] 

Oakhurst [^quietly]. Perhaps, Jovita [taking her hand 
with grave earnestness], to a clandestine intimacy like ours 
there is but one end. It is not merely elopement, not 
merely marriage, it is exposure ! Sooner or later you and 
I must face the eyes we now shun. What matters if to- 
night or later ? 

Jovita [quickly], I am ready. It was you who — • 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 359 

Oahhurst. It was I who first demanded secrecy, but it 
was I who told you when we last met that I would tell you 
why to-night. 

Jovita. I am ready ; but hear me, Juan, nothing can 
change my faith in you ! 

Oahhurst [sadly~\. You know not what you say. Lis- 
ten, my child. I am a gambler. Not the man who lav- 
ishes his fortune at the gaming-table for excitement's sake ; 
not the fanatic who stakes his own earnings — perhaps the 
the confided earnings of others — on a single coup. No, 
he is the man who loses, — whom the world deplores, pities, 
and forgives. I am the man who wins — whom the world 
hates and despises. 

Jovita. I do not understand you, Juan. 

Oakhurst. So much the better, perhaps. But you 
must hear me. I make a profession — an occupation more 
exacting, more wearying, more laborious, than that of your 
meanest herdsmen — of that which others make a dissipa- 
tion of the senses. And yet, Jovita, there is not the mean- 
est vaquero in this ranch, who, playing against me, winning 
or losing, is not held to be my superior. I have no friends 
— only confederates. Even the woman who dares to pity 
me must do it in secret. 

Jovita. But you will abandon this dreadful trade. As 
the son of the rich Don Josd, no one dare scorn you. My 
father will relent. I am his heiress. 

Oakhurst. No more, Jovita, no more. If I were the 
man who could purchase the world's respect through a 
woman's weakness for him, I should not be here to-night. . 
I am not here to sue your father's daughter with hopes of 
forgiveness, promises of reformation. Beformation, in a 
man like me, means cowardice or self-interest. [Old Mor- 
ton, becoming excited, leans slowly out from the shadow 
of the pillar, listening intently.'] I am here to take, by 
force if necessary, a gambler's wife, — the woman who will 



360 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

share my fortunes, my disgrace, my losses ; who is willing 
to leave her old life of indulgence, of luxury, of respecta- 
bility, for mine. You are frightened, little dove : com- 
pose yourself [soothing her tenderly and sadly] ; you are 
frightened at the cruel hawk who has chosen you for a 
mate. 

Old Morton [aside']. God in heaven ! This is like 
HIM ! like me ! — before the blessed Lord lifted me into 
regeneration. If it should be ! [Leans forward anxiously 
from pillar.] 

Oakhurst [aside]. Still silent ! Poor dove, I can hear 
her foolish heart flutter against mine. Another moment de- 
cides our fate. Another moment: John Oakhurst and free- 
dom, or Red Gulch and — She is moving. [To Jovita.] 
I am harsh, little one, and cold. Perhaps I have had much 
to make me so. But when [with feeling] I first met you ; 
when, lifting my eyes to the church porch, I saw your 
beautiful face ; when, in sheer recklessness and bravado, I 
raised my hat to you ; when you — you, Jovita — lifted 
your brave eyes to mine, and there, there in the sanctuary, 
returned my salute, — the salutation of the gambler, the out- 
cast, the reprobate, — then, then I swore that you should be 
mine, if I tore you from the sanctuary. Speak now, Jovita : 
if it was coquetry, speak now ; I forgive you : if it was 
sheer wantonness, speak now ; I shall spare you : but if — 

Jovita [throwing herself in his arms]. Love, Juan ! 
I am yours, now and forever. [Pause.] But you have 
not told me all. I will go with you to-night — now. I 
leave behind me all, — my home, my father, my — [pause] 
my name. You have forgotten, Juan, you have not told 
me what I change that for : you have not told me yours. 
Old Morton, in eager excitement, leans beyond shadow 

of pillar. 

Oakhurst [embracing her tenderly, with a smile]. It 
I have not told you who I am, it was because, darling, ifc 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 361 

was more important that you should know what I am. 
Now that you know that — why — \_embaTrassedly] I have 
nothing more to tell. I did not wish you to repeat the 
name of Oakhurst — because — [aside ] how the devil shall 
I tell her that Oakhurst was my real name, after all, and 
that I only feared she might divulge it ? — \_aloud] be- 
cause — because — [determinedly~\ I doubted your ability 
to keep a secret. My real name is — [looks up and sees 
Morton leaning beyond pillar'] is a secret. [Pause, in 
which Oakhurst slowly recovers his coolness.] It will 
be given to the good priest who to-night joins our fate for- 
ever, Jovita, — forever, in spite of calumny, opposition, or 
spies ! the padre whom we shall reach, if enough life re- 
mains in your pulse and mine to clasp these hands together. 
[After a pause.] Are you content ? 

Jovita, I am. 

Oakhurst. Then there is not a moment to lose. Ee- 
tire, and prepare yourself for a journey. I will wait here. 

Jovita. I am ready now. 

Oakhurst [looking toward pillar]. Pardon, my dar- 
ling : there was a bracelet — a mere trifle — I once gave 
you. It is not on your wrist. I, am a trifle superstitious, 
perhaps : it was my first gift. Bring it with you. I will 
wait. Go ! [ JSxit Jovita. 

Oakhurst watches her exit, lounges indifferently toward 
gate ; when opposite pillar suddenly seizes Morton by 
the throat, and drags him noiselessly to centre, 

Oakhurst [hurriedly]. One outcry, — one single word, 
— and it is your last. I care not who you may be ! — who 
I am, — you have heard enough to know, at least, that you 
are in the grip of a desperate man. [Keys fall from Mor- 
ton's hand. Oakhurst seizes them.] Silence ! on 
your life. 



362 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Morton [struggling']. You would not date ! I com- 
mand you — 

Oakhurst \_dragging him to gateway"]. Out you must 

go- 

Morton. Stop, I command you ! / never turned my 

father out of doors ! 

Oakhurst \_gazing at Mokton], It is an old man ! I 
release you. Do as you will, only remember that that girl 
is mine forever, that there is no power on earth will keep 
me from her. 

Morton. On conditions. 

Oakhurst. Who are you that make conditions ? You 
are not — her father ? 

Morton. No, but I am yours! Alexander Morton, I 
charge you to hear me. 

Oakhurst [^starting in astonishment ; aside]. Sandy 
Morton, my lost partner's father ! This is fate. 

Morton. You are astonished ; but I thought so. Ay, 
you will hear me now ! I am your father, Alexander Mor- 
ton, who drove you, a helpless boy, into disgrace and mis- 
ery. I know your shameless life : for twenty years it wa» 
mine, and worse, until, by the grace of God, I reformed, as 
you shall. I have stopped you in a disgraceful act. Your 
mother — God forgive me ! — left her house, for Tny arms, 
as wickedly, as wantonly, as shamelessly — 

Oakhurst. Stop, old man ! Stop ! Another word 
[seizing him], and I may forget your years. 

Morton. But not your blood. No, Alexander Morton, 
I have come thousands of miles for one sacred purpose, — 
to save you ; and I shall, with God's will, do it now. Be 
it so, on one condition. You shall have this girl ; but 
lawfully, openly, with the sanction of Heaven and your 
parents. 

Oakhurst \_aside]. I see a ray of hope. This is 
Sandy's father j the cold, insensate brute, who drove him 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 363 

into exile, the one bitter memory of his life. Sandy disap- 
peared, irreclaimable, or living alone, hating irrevocably 
the author of his misery : why should not I — 

Morton [continuing']. On one condition. Hear me, 
Alexander Morton. If within a year, you, abandoning 
your evil practices, your wayward life, seek to reform be- 
neath my roof, I will make this proud Spanish Don glad to 
accept you as the more than equal of his daughter. 

Oakhurst \asid&\. It would be an easy deception. 
Sandy has given me the details of his early life. At least, 
before the imposition was discovered I shall be — • 
[^ Aloud.] I — I — [Aside.] Perdition! she is coming! 
There is a light moving in the upper chamber. Don Jos^ 
is awakened. [Aloud.] I — I — accept. 

Morton. It is well. Take these keys, open yonder 
gate, and fly ! [As Oakhuest hesitates — ] Obey me. 
I will meet your sweetheart, and explain all. You will 
come here at daylight in the morning, and claim admit- 
tance, not as a vagabond, a housebreaker, but as my son. 
You hesitate. Alexander Morton, I, your father, com- 
mand you. Go ! 
Oakhurst goes to the gate, opens it, as the sound of 

Diego's voice, singing in the fog, comes faintly in. 

Oh, yer *s your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, yer 's your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, yer 's your Sand}'' Morton, 
For he 's drunk, and goin' a-courtin^ 
Oh, yer 's your Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 

Oakhurst recoils against gate, Morton hesitates as win- 
dow in corridor opens, and Dox Josi calls from upper 
corridor. 

Don Jose. Concho ! [Pause.] 'T is that vagabond 
Diego, lost his way in the fog. Strange that Concho 
Bhould have overlooked him. I will descend. 



364 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Morton \to Oakhurst]. Do you hear ? 

Exit Oakhukst through gateway. Morton closes gate, 
and returns to centre. Enter Jo vita hurriedly. 

Jovita. I have it here. Quick ! there is a light in Don 
Josefs chamber ; my father is coming down. \_&ees MoR" 
TON, and screams. J^ 

Morton \_seizing her~\. Hush ! for your own sake ; for 
his ; control yourself. He is gone, but he will return. \_To 
Jovita, still struggling.'] Hush, I beg, Miss Jovita. I 
beg, I command you, my daughter. Hush ! 

Jovita [whispering]. His voice has changed. What 
does this mean ? [Aloud.] Where has he gone ? and why 
are you here ? 

Morton [slowly and seriously]. He has left me here to 
answer the unanswered question you asked him. [Enter 
Don Jose and Col. Starbottle, r. and l.] I am here 
to tell you that I am his father, and that be is Alexander 
Morton. 

TABLEAUX 

Curtain * 

END OP ACT I. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — Red Gulch. Canon of rivers and distant 
view of Sierras^ snow-ravined. Schoolhouse of logs 
in right middle distance. Ledge of rocks in centre. 
On steps of schoolhouse two large hunches of flowers. 
Enter Starbottle, slowly climbing rocks l., panting 
and exhausted. Seats himself on rock, foreground^ 
and wipes his face with his pocket-handkerchief. 

Starbottle. This is evidently the er — locality. Here 
are the — er — groves of Academus — the heights of er — 
Ida ! I should say that the unwillingness which the — er 
— divine Shakespeare points out in the — er — "whining 
schoolboy " is intensified in — er — climbing this height, 
and the — er — alacrity of his departure must be in exact 
ratio to his gravitation. Good idea. Ged ! say it to school- 
ma'am. Wonder what she 's like ? Humph ! the usual 
thin, weazened, hatchet-faced Yankee spinster, with an in- 
decent familiarity with Webster's Dictionary ! And this 
is the woman, Star, you 're expected to discover, and bring 
back to affluence and plenty. This is the new fanaticism 
of Mr. Alexander Morton, Sr. Ged ! not satisfied with 
dragging his prodigal son out of merited obscurity, this mis- 
erable old lunatic commissions me to hunt up another of 
his abused relatives ; some forty-fifth cousin, whose mother 
he had frozen, beaten, or starved to death ! And all this 
to please his prodigal ! Ged ! if that prodigal had n't pre- 
sented himself that morning, I 'd have picked up — er — 
some — er — reduced gentleman — Ged, that knew how to 
spend the old man's money to better advantage. ^Musing.J 



366 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

If this schoolmistress were barely good-looking, Star, — • 
and she 's sure to have fifty thousand from the old man — 
Ged, you might get even with Alexander, Sr., for betroth- 
ing his prodigal to Dona Jo vita, in spite of the — er — evi- 
dent preference that the girl showed for you. Capital idea ! 
If she 's not positively hideous I '11 do it ! Ged ! I '11 re- 
connoitre first ! [^Musinf/.'] I could stand one eye ; yes — ■ 
er — single eye would not be positively objectionable in the 

— er — present experiments of science toward the — er — 
the substitution of glass. Ked hair, Star, is — er — Vene- 
tian, — the beauty of Giorgione. [ Goes up to schoolhouse 
window, and looks hi.'] Too early ! Seven empty benches ; 
seven desks splashed with ink. The — er — rostrum of the 
awful Minerva empty, but — er — adorned with flowers, 
nosegays — demn me ! And here, here on the — er — 
very threshold [looking down], floral tributes. The — er 

— conceit of these New England schoolma'ams, and their 

— er — evident Jesuitical influence over the young, is 
fraught, sir, fraught with — er — darkly political signifi- 
cance. Eh, Ged ! there 's a caricature on the blackboard. 
\_Laughing.'] Ha, ha ! Absurd chalk outline of ridiculous 
fat person. Evidently the schoolma'am's admirer. Ged ! 
immensely funny ! Ah ! boys will be boys. Like you. Star, 
just like you, — always up to tricks like that. A sentence 
scrawled below the figure seems to be — er — explanation. 
Hem! [Takes out eyeglass.] ljQt^& &%q [reading]. "This 
is old " — old — er — old — demme, sir, — " Starbottle ! '' 
This is infamous. I have n't been forty-eight hours in the 
place, and to my certain knowledge have n't spoken to a 
child. Ged, sir, it 's the — er — posting of a libel ! The 
woman, the — er — female, who permits this kind of thing, 
should be made responsible — er — personally responsible. 
Eh, hush ! What have we here ? [Retires to ledge oj 
rocks,'] 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 367 

Enter Miss Mary l., reading letter^ 
Miss Mary. Strange ! Is it all a dream ? No ! here 
are the familiar rocks, the distant snow-peaks, the school- 
house, the spring below. An hour ago I was the poor 
schoolmistress of Red Gulch, with no ambition nor hope be- 
yond this mountain wall ; and now — oh, it must be a 
dream ! But here is the letter. Certainly this is no delu- 
sion : it is too plain, formal, business-like. [JSeacZs.] 

My dear Cousin, — I address the only surviving child 
of my cousin Mary and her husband John Morris, both de- 
ceased. It is my duty as a Christian relative to provide you 
with a home, — to share with you that wealth and those 
blessings that a kind Providence has vouchsafed me. I am 
aware that my conduct to your father and mother, while in 
my sinful and unregenerate state, is no warrantee for my 
present promise ; but my legal adviser, Colonel Starbottle, 
who is empowered to treat with you, will assure you of the 
sincerity of my intention, and my legal ability to perform 
it. He will conduct you to my house ; you will share its 
roof with me and my prodigal son Alexander, now by the 
grace of God restored, and mindful of the error of his ways. 
I enclose a draft for one thousand dollars : if you require 
more, draw upon me for the same. 

Your cousin, 

Alexander Morton, Sr. 

My mother's cousin — so ! Cousin Alexander ! a rich 
man, and reunited to the son he drove into shameful exile. 
Well ! we will see this confidential lawyer ; and until then 
— until then — why, we are the schoolmistress of Red 
Gulch, and responsible for its youthful prodigals. [ Going 
to schoolhouse door.'] 

Miss Mary \_stoj3ping to examine flowers']. Poor, poor 



368 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Sandy ! Another offering, and, as he fondly believes, un« 
known and anonymous ! As if he were not visible in every 
petal and leaf ! The mariposa blossom of the plain. The 
snow-flower I longed for, from those cool snow-drifts be* 
yond the ridge. And I really believe he was sober when he 
arranged them. Poor fellow ! I begin to think that the 
dissipated portion of this community are the most interest 
ing. Ah ! some one behind the rock — Sandy, I '11 wager. 
No ! a stranger ! 

Col. Starbottle [aside^ and advancing']. If I could 
make her think I left those flowers ! \_Aloud.~\ When I 
state that — er — I am perhaps — er — stranger — 

Miss Mary [^interrupting him coldly~\. You explain 
sir, your appearance on a spot which the rude courtesy of 
even this rude miner's camp has preserved from intrusion. 

Starbottle \_slightly abashed, but recovering himself]. 
Yes — Ged ! — that is, I — er — saw you admiring — er 

— tribute — er — humble tribute of flowers. I am myself 
passionately devoted to flowers. Ged ! I 've spent hours 

— in — er — bending over the — er — graceful sunflower, 
in — er — plucking the timid violet from the overhanging 
but reluctant bough, in collecting the — er — fauna — I 
mean the — er — flora — of this — er — district. 

Miss Mary [who has been regarding him intently]. 
Permit me to leave you in uninterrupted admiration of 
them. [Handing him flowers.] You will have ample 
time in your journey down the gulch to indulge your 
curiosity ! 

Sands Starbottle flowers, enters schoolhouse, and qui- 
etly closes door on Starbottle as Sandy Morton" 
enters cautiously and sheepishly from left. Sandy 
stops in astonishm^ent on observing Starbottle, and 
remains by wing left. 

Starbottle [^smelling flowers, and not noticing Miss 
Mary's absence]. Beautiful — er — exquisite. [Look^ 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 369 

ing up at closed door. ] Ged I Most extraordinary disap- 
pearance ! \_Looks around and discovers Sandy ; examines 
him for a moment through his eyeglass j and then, after a 
pause, inflates his chest, turns his hack on Sandy, and 
advances to schoolhouse door. Sandy comes quickly, and, 
as Starhottle raises his coMe to rap on door, seizes his 
arm. Both men, regarding each other fixedly, holding 
each other, retreat slowly and cautiously to centre. 
Then Starbottle disengages his arm.~\ 

Sandy \_emharrassedly hut determinedly^ Look yer, 
stranger. By the rules of this camp, this place is sacred to 
the schoolma'am and her children. 

Starhottle [unth lofty severity"]. It is ! Then — er — 
permit to me to ask, sir, what you are doing here. 

Sandy {^embarrassed, and dropping his head in confu" 
sion^. I was — passing. There is no school to-day. 

Starhottle. Then, sir, Ged ! permit me to ^ — er — 
demand — demand, sir — an apology. You have laid, sir, 
your hand upon my person — demn me ! JSTot the first 
time, sir, either ; for, if I am not mistaken, you are the — 
er — inebriated menial, sir, who two months ago jostled me, 
sir, — demn me, — as I entered the rancho of my friend 
Don Jose Castro. 

Sandy {starting, aside"]. Don Jose! {Aloud.] Hush, 
hush ! She will hear you. Ko — that is - — {stops, con^ 
fused and embarrassed. Aside.] She will hear of my 
disgrace. He will tell her the whole story. 

Starhottle. I shall await your apology one hour. At 
the end of that time, if it is not forthcoming, I shall — 
er — er — waive your menial antecedents, and expect the 
— er — satisfaction of a gentleman. Good-morning sir. 
{Turns to schoolhouse.] 

Sandy. No, no : you shall not go ! 

Starhottle. Who will prevent me ? 

Sandy {grappling him.] I will. {Appealingly.J 



370 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Look yer, stranger, don't provoke me, I, a desperate man, 
desperate and crazed with drink, — don't ye, don't ye do 
it ! For God's sake, take your hands off me ! Ye don't 
know what ye do. Ah ! [ Wildly ^ holding Staebottle 
firyrily^ and forcing him, backward to j^reci'pice beyond 
ledge of rocks. '\ Hear me. Three years ago, in a moment 
like this, I dragged a man — my friend — to this preci- 
pice. I — I — no ! no ! — don't anger me now ! [San- 
dy's grip on Starbottle relaxes slightly y and his head 
droops.^ 

Starbottle [^coollyl^. Permit me to remark, sir, that any 
reminiscence of your — er — friend — or any other man 
is — er — at this moment, irrelevant and impertinent. 
Permit me to point out the — er — fact, sir, that your 
hand is pressing heavily, demned heavily, on my shoul- 
der. 

Sandy [fiercely']. You shall not go! 

Starbottle [fiercely]. Shall not ? 

Struggle. Starbottle draws derringer from his breast" 
pockety and Sandy seizes his arm. In this position 
both parties struggle to ledge of rocks, and Col. Star- 
bottle is forced partly over. 

Miss Mary [opening schoolhouse door]. I thought I 
heard voices. [Looking toward ledge of rocks, where 
Col. Starbottle and Sandy are partly hidden by trees. 
Both men relax grasp of each other at Miss Mary's 
voice. ] 

Col. Starbottle [aloud and with voice slightly raised, 
to Sandy]. By — er — leaning over this way a moment, 
a single moment, you will — - er — perceive the trail I speak 
of. It follows the canon to the right. It will hring you 
to — er — the settlement in an hour. [To Miss Mary, as 
if observing her for the first time.] I believe I am — er 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAE 371 

— right ; but, being — er — more familiar with the locality, 
you can direct the gentleman better. 

Sandy slowly sinks on his knees beside rock, with his 
face averted from schoolhouse, as Col. Starbottlb 
disengages himself and advances jauntily and gaU 
lantly to schoolhouse. 

Col. Starhottle. In — er — er — showing the stranger 
the — er — way, I perhaps interrupted our interview. The 

— er — observances of — er — civility and humanity must 
not be foregone, even for — er — the ladies. I — er — 
believe I address Miss Mary Morris. When I — er — state 
that ray name is Colonel Starbottle, charged on mission 
of — er — delicate nature, I believe I — er — explain viy 
intrusion. 

Miss Mart hows, and motions to schoolhouse door ; Col. 
Starbottle, bowing deeply, enters '; but Miss Mary 
remains standing by door, looking toward trees that 
hide Sandy. 

Miss Mary \aside']. I am sure it was Sandy^s voice ! 
But why does he conceal himself ? 

Sandy [aside, rising slowly to his feet, with his back 
to schoolhouse door"]. Even this conceited bully overcomes 
me, and shames me with his readiness and tact. He was 
quick to spare her — a stranger — the spectacle of two an- 
gry men. I — I — must needs wrangle before her very 
door ! Well, well ! better out of her sight forever, than 
an object of pity or terror. \_Exit slowly and with down- 
cast eyes, right. '\ 

Miss Mary [watching the trail"]. It was Sandy ! and 
this concealment means something more than bashfulness. 
Perhaps the stranger can explain. [JEnters schoolhouse^ 
and closes door. 2 



372 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Scene 2 — The same. Enter Concho, lame, cautiouslyy 
from R. Pauses at R., and then beckons to Hop Sing, 
who follows R. 

Concho [impatiently']. Well ! you saw him ? 

Hop Sing. Me see him. 

Concho. And you recognized him ? 

Hop Sing. No shabe likoquize. 

Concho [furiously]. You knew him, eh ? Carramha ! 
You knew him. 

Hop Sing [sloivly and sententiously]. Me shabe man 
you callee Diego. Me shabbee Led Gulchee call Sandy. 
Me shabbee man Poker Flat callee Alexandlee Molton. 
Allee same, John ! Allee same ! 

Concho [rubbing his hands]. Bueno ! Good John ? 
good John ! And you knew he was called Alexander Mor- 
ton ? And go on — good John — go on ! 

Hop Sing. Me plentee washee shirtee — Melican man 
Poker Plat. Me plentee washee shirt Alexandlee Molton. 
Always litee, litee on shirt allee time. [Pointing to tail 
of his blouse, and imitating writing with finger.] Alex- 
andlee Molton. Melican man tellee me — shirt say Alexan- 
dlee Molton — shabbee ? 

Concho. Bueno ! Excellent John. Good John. His 
linen marked Alexander Morton. The proofs are gather- 
ing! [crosses to c] — the letter I found in his pack, ad- 
dressed to Alexander Morton, Poker Flat, which first put 
me on his track ; the story of his wife's infidelity, and her 
flight with his partner to Bed Gulch, the quarrel and fight 
that separated them, his flight to San Josd, his wanderings 
to the mission of San Carmel, to the rancho of the Holy 
Fisherman. The record is complete ! 

Hop Sing. Alexandlee Molton — 

Concho [hurriedly returning to Hop Sing]. Yes! 
good John ; yes, good John — go on. Alexander Mor- 
ton — 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 373 

-ffb/p Sing. Alexandlee Molton. Me washee shirt, 
Alexandlee Molton ; he no pay washee. Me washee flowty 
dozen hep — four bittie dozen — twenty dollar hep. Alex- 
andlee Molton no payee. He say, ^^ Go to hellee ! " You 
pay me \_extending his hand']. 

Concho. Car — ! [^checking himself.'] Poco tiempo, 
John ! In good time, John. Forty dollar — yes. Fifty 
dollar ! To-morrow, John, 

Hop Sing. Me no likee " to-mollow ! " Me no likee 
" nex time, John ! " Allee time Melican man say, " Chalkee 
up, John," " No smallee change, John,'' — umph. Plenty 
foolee me ! 

Concho. You shall have your money, John; but go 
now — you comprehend. Carramba ! go ! [^Pushes Hop 
Sing to wing.] 

Hop Sing \_expostulating]. Flowty dozen, hep, John ! 
twenty dollar, John. Sabe. Flowty — twenty — [^gesticu- 
lating with fingers.] 

[Exit Hop Sing, pushed off by Concho. 

Concho. The pagan dolt ! But he is important. Ah, 
if he were wiser, I should not rid myself of him so quickly ! 
And now for the schoolmistress, — the sweetheart of Sandy. 
If these men have not lied, he is in love with her ; and, 
if he is, he has told her his secret before now ; and she will 
be swift to urge him to his rights. If he has not told her 
— umph ! (laughing) it will not be a day — an hour — 
before she will find out if her lover is Alexander Morton, 
the rich man's son, or '* Sandy," the unknown vagabond. 
Eh, friend Sandy ! It was a woman that locked up your 
secret : it shall be a woman, Madre di Dios ! who shall 
unlock it. Ha ! [Goes to door of schoolhouse as door 
opens J and appears Col. Starbottle.] 

Concho [aside], A thousand devils ! the lawyer of the 
old man Morton. [Aloud.] Pardon, pardon ! I am a 
stranger. I have lost my way on the mountain. I am 
seeking a trail. Seiior, pardon ! 



874 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Starhottle [aside]. Another man seeking the road ! Ged, 
I believe he ^s lying too. [Aloud.] It is before you, sir, 
down, — down the mountain. 

Conclio. A thousand thanks, senor. [Aside.] Perdi- 
tion catch him! [Aloud.] Thanks, sefior. [JSxit R. 

Starhottle. Ged, I ^ve seen that face before. Ged, it 's 
Castro's major-domo. Demn me, but I believe all his 
domestics have fallen in love with the pretty school- 
ma'am. 

Enter Miss Mahy from schoolhouse. 

Miss Mary {slowly refolding letter). You are aware 
then, of the contents of this note ; and you are the friend 
of Alexander Morton, Sr. ? 

Col. Starhottle. Permit me a moment, a single mo» 
ment, to — er — er — explain. I am Mr. Morton's legal 
adviser. There is — er — sense of — er — responsibility, 

— er — personal responsibility, about the term "friend," 
that at the — er — er — present moment I am not — er — 
prepared to assume. The substance of the letter is before 
you. I am here to — er — express its spirit. I am here 
[with great gallantry] to express the — er — yearnings of 
cousinly affection. I am aware — er — that our conduct, 

— if I may use the — er — the plural of advocacy, — I am 
aware that — er — our conduct has not in the past years 
been of — er — er — exemplary character. I am aware 
that the — er — death of our lamented cousin, your sainted 
mother, was — er — hastened — I may — er — say — pre- 

— cip — itated — by our — er — indiscretion. But we are 
here to — er — confess judgment — with — er — er — 
costs. 

Miss Mary [interrupting]. In other words, your client 
my cousin, having ruined my father, having turned his own 
widowed relation out of doors, and sent me, her daughter, 
among strangers to earn her bread ; having seen my mother 
sink and die in her struggle to keep her family from want, 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 375 

• — this man now seeks to condone his offenses — pardon 
me, sir, if I use your own legal phraseology — by offering 
me a home ; by giving me part of his ill-gotten wealth, the 
association of his own hypocritical self, and the company of 
his shameless, profligate son — 

Starbottle [^interrupting^ A moment. Miss Morris, — 
a single moment ! The epithets you have used, the — er 

— vigorous characterization of our — er — conduct, is — er 

— within the — er — strict rules of legal advocacy, correct. 
We are — er — rascals ! we are — er — scoundrels ! we are 

— er — well, I am not — er — prepared to say that we are 
not — er — demn me — hypocrites ! But the young man 
you speak of — our son, whose past life (speaking as Colo- 
nel Starbottle) no one more sincerely deprecates than myself, 

— that young man lias reformed ; has been for the past few 
months a miracle of sobriety, decorum, and industry ; has 
taken, thanks to the example of — er — friends, a position 
of integrity in his father's business, of filial obedience in his 
father's household ; is, in short, a paragon ; and, demn me, 
I doubt if he ^s his father's son. 

Miss Mary, Enough, sir ! You are waiting for my 
answer. There is no reason why it should not be as pre- 
cise, as brief, and as formal as your message. Go to my 
cousin ; say that you saw the person he claims as his rela- 
tion ; say that you found her, a poor schoolmistress, in a 
rude mining-camp, dependent for her bread on the scant 
earnings of already impoverished men, dependent for her 
honor on the rude chivalry of outcasts and vagabonds ; and 
say that then and there she repudiated your kinship, and 
respectfully declined your invitation. 

Starbottle \_aside~\. Ged ! Star ! this is the — er — fe- 
male of your species ! This is the woman — the — er — 
one woman — for whom you are responsible, sir ! — person- 
ally responsible ! 

Miss Mary [coldly']. You have my answer, sir. 



376 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Col. Starhottle. Permit me — er — single moment, — 
a single moment ! Between the — er — present moment, 
and that of my departure — there is an — er — interval of 
twelve hours. May I, at the close of that interval — again 
present myself — without prejudice, for your final answer ? 

Miss Mary \indifferently~\. As you will, sir. I shall 
be here. 

Col. Starhottle. Permit me. [Takes her hand gal- 
lantly.'] Your conduct and manner. Miss Morris, remind 
me — er — singularly — of — er — beautiful creature — 
one of the — er — first families. [Observing Miss Mary 
regarding him amusedly, becomes embarrassed. ] That is 
— er — I mean — er — er — good morning, Miss Morris ! 
[Passes by the schoolhouse door, retreating and bowing, 
and picks up flowers from doorstep. ] Good morning ! 

Miss Mary. Excuse me, Colonel Starhottle [with win- 
ning politeness\ but I fear I must rob you of those flowers. 
I recognize them now as the offering of one of my pupils. 
I fear I must revoke my gift [taking flowers from aston- 
ished coloneVs hand\ all except a single one for your but- 
tonhole. Have yoil any choice, or shall I [archly] choose 
for you? Then it shall be this. [Begins to place flowers 
in buttonhole, Col. Stakbottle exhibiting extravagant 
gratitude in dumb show. Business prolonged through 
Miss Mary's speech.] If I am not wrong, colonel, the 
gentleman to whom you so kindly pointed out the road 
this morning was not a stranger to you. Ah ! I am right. 
There, — one moment, — a sprig of green, a single leaf, 
would set off the pink nicely. Here he is known only as 
*^ Sandy : " you know the absurd habits of this camp. Of 
course he has another name. There ! [releasing the colo- 
nel] it is much prettier now. 

Col. Starbottle. Ged, madam ! The rarest exotic — the 
Victoria Regina — is not as — er — graceful — er — tri« 
bute ! 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 377 

Miss Mary. And yet you refuse to satisfy my curi- 
osity ? 

Col. Starhottle {with great embarrassment, which at 
last resolves itself into increased dignity of manner'^. 
What you ask is — er — er — impossible ! You are right : 
the — er — gentleman you allude to is known to me under 

— er — er — another name. But honor — Miss Morris, 
honor ! — seals the lips of Colonel Starhottle. [Aside. ] 
If she should know he was a menial ! No. The position 
of the man you have challenged, Star, must be equal to 
your own. \_Aloud.'] Anything, Miss Morris, but — er 

— that ! 

Miss Mary \_smiling']. Be it so. Adios, Colonel Star- 
bottle. 

Col. Starhottle {gallantly']. Au revoir, Miss Morris. 

{Exit, impressively, L. 

Miss Mary. So ! Sandy conceals another name, which 
he withholds from Eed Gulch. Well! Pshaw! What 
is that to me ? The camp is made up of refugees, — men 
who perhaps have good reason to hide a name that may be 
infamous, the name that would publish a crime. Non- 
sense ! Grime and Sandy ! No, shame and guilt do not 
hide themselves in those honest but occasionally somewhat 
bloodshot eyes. Besides, goodness knows ! the poor fel- 
low's weakness is palpable enough. No, that is not the 
reason. It is no guilt that keeps his name hidden, — at 
least, not his. {Seating herself, and arranging flowers in 
her lap.] Poor Sandy ! he must have climbed the eastern 
summit to get this. See, the rosy sunrise still lingers 
in its very petals ; the dew is fresh upon it. Dear little 
mountain baby ! I really believe that fellow got up before 
daylight, to climb that giddy height and secure its virgin 
freshness. And to think, in a moment of spite, I 'd have 
given it to that bombastic warrior ! {Fause.] That was 
a fine offer you refused just now. Miss Mary. Think of 



878 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

it : a home of luxury, a position of assured respect and 
homage ; the life I once led, with all its difficulties 
smoothed away, its uncertainty dispelled, — think of it ! 
My poor mother's dream fulfilled, — I, her daughter, the 
mistress of affluence, the queen of social power ! What a 
temptation ! Ah, Miss Mary, was it a temptation ? Was 
there nothing in your free life here that stiffened your cour- 
age, that steeled the adamant of your refusal ? o* was it 
only the memory of your mother's wrongs ? Luxury and 
wealth ! Could you command a dwelling more charming 
than this ? Position and respect ! Is not the awful ad- 
miration of these lawless men more fascinating than the 
perilous flattery of gentlemen like Colonel Starhottle ? is 
not the devotion of these outcasts more complimentary than 
the lip-service of perfumed gallantry ? [Pause."] It 's 
very odd he does n't come. I wonder if that conceited old 
fool said anything to him. [^Rises, and then seats herself 
smiling.'] He has come. He is dodging in and out of the 
manzanita bushes below the spring. I suppose he imagines 
my visitor still here. The bashful fool ! If anybody 
should see him, it would be enough to make a petty scan- 
dal ! I '11 give him a talking-to. [^Pause.] I wonder 
if the ridiculous fool has gone to sleep in those bushes. 
\_Rises.] Well, let him : it will help him to recover his 
senses from last night's dissipation ; and you, Miss Mary, 
it is high time you were preparing the lessons for to- 
morrow. \_Goes to schoolhouse^ enters door, and slatns 
it behind her ; after a moment reappears with empty 
bucket.] Of course there 's no water, and I am dying of 
thirst. \_Goes slowly to left, and pauses embarrassedly 
and bashfully, presently laughs, — then suddenly frowns, 
and assumes an appearance of indignation.] Miss Mary 
Morris, have you become such an egregious fool that you 
dare not satisfy the ordinary cravings of human nature, just 
because an idle, dissipated, bashful blockhead — nonsense ! 

[Exit, brandishing paiU 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 379 

Scene 3. — The Same, 

[^A pause. Sandy's voicCy without.'] This way, miss; 
the trail is easier. 

[Miss Mary's voice j without.'] Never mind me, look 
after the bucket. 

JEnter Sandy, carrying bucket with water, followed hy 
Miss Mary. Sandy sets bucket down. 

Miss Mary. There, you've spilt half of it. If it had 
been whiskey, you 'd have been more careful. 

Sandy [^submissively]. Yes, miss. 

Miss Mary [aside]. " Yes, miss ! " The man will 
drive me crazy with his saccharine imbecility. [Aloud.] 
I believe you would assent to anything, even if I said you 
were — an impostor ! 

Sandy [amazedly]. An impostor. Miss Mary ? 

Miss Mary. Well, I don't know what other term you 
use in Eed Gulch to express a man who conceals his real 
name under another. 

Sandy [embarrassed, but facing Miss Mary]. Has 
anybody been tellin' ye I was an impostor, miss ? Has 
that derned old fool that I saw ye with — 

Miss Mary. " That old fool," as you call him, was too 
honorable a gentleman to disclose your secret, and too loyal 
a friend to traduce you by an epithet. Fear nothing, Mr. 
" Sandy : " if you have limited your confidence to one 
friend, it has not been misplaced. But, dear me, don't think 
/ wish to penetrate your secret. No. The little I learned 
was accidental. Besides, his business was with me : perhaps, 
as his friend, you already know it. 

Sandy [meekly]. Perhaps, miss, he was too honorable 
a gentleman to disclose your sepret. His business was with 
me. 

Mis6 Mary [aside]. He has taken a leaf out of my 



380 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

book! He is not so stupid, after all. [^Aloud.'] I have 
no secret. Colonel Starbottle came here to make me an 
offer. 

Sandy \recoiling~\. An offer ! 

Miss Mary. Of a home and independence. \_Aside.'\ 
Poor fellow ! how pale he looks ! [^Aloud.'] Well, you 
see, I am more trustful than you. I will tell you my 
secret ; and you shall aid me with your counsel. \_They 
sit on ledge of rocks. ~\ Listen! My mother had a cousin 
once, — a cousin cruel, cowardly, selfish, and dissolute. 
She loved him, as women are apt to love such men, — 
loved him so that she beguiled her own husband to trust 
his fortunes in the hands of this wretched profligate. The 
husband was ruined, disgraced. The wife sought her 
cousin for help for her necessities. He met her with insult, 
and proposed that she should fly with him. 

Sandy. One moment, miss : it wasn't his pardner, — 
his pardner' s wife — eh ? 

Miss Mary [impatiently^ It was the helpless wife 
of his own blood, I tell you. The husband died broken- 
hearted. The wife, my mother, struggled in poverty, under 
the shadow of a proud name, to give me an education, and 
died while I was still a girl. To-day this cousin, — this 
more than murderer of my parents, — old, rich, self-satisfied, 
reformed, invites me, by virtue of that kinship he violated 
and despised, to his home, his wealth, his — his family roof- 
tree ! The man you saw was his agent. 

Sandy. And you — 

Miss Mary. Refused. 

Sandy \_ passing his hand over his forehead"]. You 
did wrong, Miss Mary. 

Miss Mary. Wrong, sir ? [Rising. "] 

Sandy [humbly hut firmly"]. Sit ye down, Miss Mary. 
It ain't for ye to throw your bright young life away yer in 
this place. It ain't for such as ye to soil your fair young 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 381 

hands by raking in the ashes to stir up the dead embers of 
a family wrong. It ain't for ye — ye '11 pardon me, Mips 
Mary, for say in' it — it ain't for ye to allow when it's too 
late fur a man to reform, or to go back of his reformation. 
Don't ye do it, miss, fur God's sake, — don't ye do it! 
Harkin, Miss Mary. If ye '11 take my advice — a fool's 
advice, maybe — ye '11 go. And when I tell ye that that 
advice, if ye take it, will take the sunshine out of these 
hills, the color oflf them trees, the freshness outer them 
flowers, the heart's blood outer me, — ye '11 know that i 
ain't thinkin' o' myself, but of ye. And I wouldn't say 
this much to ye. Miss Mary, cut you 're goin' away. There 's 
a flower, miss, you 're wearin'' in your bosom, — a flower I 
picked at daybreak this morning, five miles away in the 
snow. The wind was blowing chill around it, so that my 
hands that dug for it were stiff and cold ; but the roots were 
warm. Miss Mary, as they are now in your bosom. Ye '11 
keep that flower, Miss Mary, in remembrance of my love 
for ye, that kept warm and blossomed through the snow. 
And, don't start. Miss Mary, — for ye '11 leave behind ye, 
as I did, the snow and rocks through which it bloomed. I 
axes your parding, miss : I 'm hurtin' yer f eelin's, sure. 

Miss Mary [rising with agitation]. Ko thing, — no- 
thing ; but climbing these stupid rocks has made me giddy : 
that 's all. Your arm. [To Sandy impatiently.~\ Can't you 
give me your arm ? [Sandy supports Miss Mary awk- 
ivardly toward schoolhouse. At door Miss M.a^ry pauses."] 
But if this reformation is so easy, so acceptable, why have 
you not profited by it ? Why have you not reformed ? Why 
have I found you here, a disgraced, dissipated, anonymous 
outcast, whom an honest girl dare not know ? Why do you 
presume to preach to me ? Have you a father ? 

Sandy. Hush, Miss Mary, hush ! I had a father. Har- 
kin. All that you have suffered from a kinship even so 
far removed, I have known from the hands of one who 



382 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

should have protected me. My father was — but no mat* 
ter. You, Miss Mary, came out of your trials like gold 
from the washing. I was only the dirt and gravel to be 
thrown away. It is too late, Miss Mary, too late. My 
father has never sought me, would turn me from his doors 
had I sought him. Perhaps he is only right. 

Miss Mary. But why should he be so different from 
others ? Listen. This very cousin whose offer I refused 
had a son, — wild, wayward, by all report the most de- 
graded of men. It was part of my cousin's reformation to 
save this son, and, if it were possible, snatch him from that 
terrible fate which seemed to be his only inheritance — 

Sandy \_eag6rly']. Yes, miss. 

Miss Mary. To restore him to a regenerated home. 
With this idea he followed his prodigal to California. I, 
you understand, was only an afterthought consequent upon 
his success. He came to California upon this pilgrimage 
two years ago. He had no recollection, so they tell me, 
by which he could recognize this erring son ; and at first 
his search was wild, profitless, and almost hopeless. But 
by degrees, and with a persistency that seemed to increase 
with his hopelessness, he was rewarded by finding some 
clew to him at — at — at — 

Sandy \_excitedly']. At Poker Flat ? 

Miss Mary. Ah, perhaps you know the story, — at 
Poker Flat. He traced him to the Mission of San Carmel. 

Sandy. Yes, miss : go on. 

Miss Mary. He was more successful than he deserved, 
perhaps. He found him. I see you know the story. 

Sandy. Found him ! Found him ! Miss, did you say 
found him ? 

Miss Mary. Yes, found him. And to-day Alexander 
Morton, the reclaimed prodigal, is part of the household I 
am invited to join. So you see, Mr. Sandy, there is still 
hope. What has happened to him is only a promise ta 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 383 

you. Eh! Mr. Sandy — what is the matter? Are you 
ill ? Your exertion this morning, perhaps. Speak to me ! 
Gracious heavens, he is going mad ! No ! No ! Yes — 
it cannot be — it is — he has broken his promise : he is 
drunk again. 

Sandy [risingj excited and confused'^. Excuse me, 
miss, I am a little onsartain ?iere {^pointing to his head']. I 
can't — I disremember — what you said jus' now : ye men- 
tioned the name o' that prodigal that was found. 

Miss Mary, Certainly : compose yourself, — my cousin's 
son, Alexander Morton. Listen, Sandy ; you promised we, 
you know, you said for Tuy sake you would not touch a 
drop. [^Enter cautiously toward schoolhouse the Duchess, 
stops on observing Sandy, and hides behind rock.] 

Sandy [still bewildered and incoherent]. I reckon. 
Harkin, miss, is that thar thing [pointing towards rock 
where Duchess is concealed] — is that a tree, or — or — 
— - a woman ? Is it sorter movin' this way ? 

Miss Mary [laying her hand on Sandy's]. Recover 
your senses, for Heaven's sake, Sandy, — for my sake ! It 
is only a tree. 

Sandy [rising]. Then, miss, I 've broke my word with 
ye: I'm drunk. P'r'aps I'd better be a-goin' [looking 
round confusedly] till I'm sober. [Going toward l.J 

Miss Mary [seizing his hand]. But you '11 see me 
again, Sandy ; you '11 come here — before — before I go ? 

Sandy, Yes, miss, — before ye go. [Staggers stupidly 
toward l. Aside.] Eound him ! found Alexander Mor- 
ton ! It's a third time, Sandy, the third time : it means — 
it means — you 're mad ! [Laughs wildly, and exit l.] 

Miss Mary [springing to her feet]. There is a mystery 
behind all this, Mary Morris, that you — you — must dis- 
cover. That man was not drunk : he had not broken his 
promise to me. What does it all mean? I have it. I 
will accept the offer of this Alexander Morton. I will tell 



SS4: TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

him the story of this helpless man, this poor, poor, reckless 
Sandy. With the story of his own son before his eyes, he 
cannot but interest himself in his fate. He is rich : he 
'.vill aid me in my search for Sandy's father, for Sandy's 
secret. At the worst, I can only follow the advice of this 
wretched man, — an advice so generous, so kind, so self- 
sacrificing. Ah — 

Scene 4. — The same, winter the Duchess, showily 
and extravagantly dressed. Her manner at first is a 
mixture of alternate shyness and bravado. 

The Duchess. I heerd tell that you was goin' down to 
'Frisco to-morrow, for your vacation; and I couldn't let 
ye go till I came to thank ye for your kindness to my 
boy, — little Tommy. 

Miss Mary \_aside, rising abstractedly, and recalling 
herself with an effort~\. I see, — a poor outcast, the 
mother of my anonymous pupil. \_Aloud.~\ Tommy ! a 
good boy, — a dear, good little boy. 

Duchess. Thankee, miss, thankee. If I am his mother, 
thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. 
And if I ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, 
angeler teacher than he 's got. It ain't for you to be com- 
plimented by me, miss ; it ain't for such as me to be comin' 
here in broad day to do it, neither ; but I come to ask 
a favor, — not for me, miss, but for the darling boy. 

Miss Mary [aside — abstractedly']. This poor, de- 
graded creature will kill me with her wearying gratitude. 
Sandy will not return, of course, while she is here. [Aloud."] 
Go on. If I can help you or yours, be assured I will. 

The Duchess. Thankee, miss. You see, thar 's no one 
the boy has any claim on but me, and I ain't the proper 
person to bring him up. I did allow to send him to 'Frisco, 
last year ; but when I heerd talk that a schoolma'am was 
comin' up, and you did, and he sorter tuk to ye natril from 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 385 

the first, I guess I did well to keep him yer. For, oh, 
miss, he loves ye so much ; and if you could hear him talk 
in his purty way, ye would n't refuse him anything. 

Miss Mary [_with fatigued politeness and increasing 
impatience~\. I see, I see : pray go on. 

The Duchess [with quiet persistency~\. It 's natril he 
should take to ye, miss ; for his father, when I first knowed 
him, miss, was a gentleman like yourself ; and the boy 
must forget me sooner or later — and I ainH goin' to cry 
about that. 

Miss Mary [impatiently']. Pray tell me how I can 
serve you. 

The Duchess. Yes, miss ; you see, I came to ask you to 
take my Tommy, — God bkss him for the sweetest, bestest 
boy that lives ! — to take him with you. I Ve money 
plenty ; and it 's all yours and his. Put him in some good 
school, whar ye kin go and see, and sorter help him to — 
forget — his mother. Do with him what you like. The 
worst you can do will be kindness to what he would learn 
with me. You will : I know you will ; won't you ? You 
will make him as pure and as good as yourself ; and when 
he has grown up, and is a gentleman, you will tell him his 
father's name, — the name that has n't passed my; lips for 
years, — the name of Alexander Morton. 

Miss Mary [aside]. Alexander Morton ! The prodigal ! 
Ah, I see, — the ungathered husks of his idle harvest. 

The Duchess. You hesitate. Miss Mary. [SeiHng 
her.] Do not take your hand away. You are smiling. 
God bless you ! I know you will take my boy. Speak to 
me. Miss Mary. 

Miss Mary [aloud]. I will take your child. More 
than that, I will take him to his father. 

The Duchess. No, no ! for God 's sake, no. Miss Mary ! 
He has never seen him from his birth : he does not know 
him. He will disown him. He will curse him, — will 
euise me ! 



886 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Miss Mary, Why should he ? Surely his crime ia 
worse than yours. 

The Duchess. Hear me, Miss Mary. \_Aside.'\ How 
can I tell her? \^Aloud.'] One moment, miss. I was 
once — ye may not believe it, miss — as good, as pure, as 
you. I had a husband, the father of this child. He was 
kind, good, easy, forgiving, — too good for me, miss, too 
simple and unsuspecting. He was what the world calls a 
fool, miss : he loved me too well, — • the kind o^ crime, miss, 

— beggin' your pardon, and all precepts to the contrairy, 

— the one thing that women like me never forgives. He 
had a pardner, miss, that governed him as he never gov- 
erned me ; that held him with the stronger will, and maybe 
me too. I was young, miss, — no older than yourself 
then ; and T ran away with him : left all, and ran away with 
my husband's pardner. My husband — nat'rally — took to 
drink. I axes your pardin', miss ; but ye '11 see now, al- 
io win' your larnin', that Alexander Morton ain't the man 
as will take my child. 

Miss Mary. Nonsense. You are wrong. He has re- 
formed ; he ha? been restored to his home, — your child's 
home, your home if you will but claim it. Do not fear : 
I will make that right. 

Enter Sandy slowly and sheepishly, r. / stops on ohserv* 
ing the Duchess, and stands amazed and motionless. 

Miss Mary \_ohserving Sandy — aside"]. He has re- 
turned. Poor fellow ! How shall I get rid of this woman ? 
\_Aloud.'\ Enough. If you are sincere, I will take your 
child, and, God help me ! bring him to his home and yours. 
Are you satisfied ? 

The Duchess. Thank ye ! Thank ye, miss ; but — 
but thar 's a mistake somewhar. In course — it's natural 

— ye don't know the father of that child, my boy Tommy, 
under the name o* Alexander Morton. Ye 're thinking, 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 387 

like as not, of another man. The man I mean lives yer, in 
this camp : they calls him Sandy, miss, — Sandy ! 

Miss Mary [after a pause, coming forward passion- 
ately']. Hush ! I have given you my answer, be it Alex- 
ander Morton or Sandy. Go now : bring me the child this 
evening at my house. I will meet you there. [Leads the 
Duchess to wing. The Duchess endeavors to fall at 
her feet.] 

Duchess. God bless you, miss ! 

Miss Mary [hurriedly embracing her.] Ko more, no 
more — but go ! [Exit Duchess. Miss Mary returns 
hurriedly to centre, confronting Sandy.] 

Miss Mary [to Sandy, hurriedly and excitedly]. You 
have heard what that woman said. I do not ask you under 
what alias you are known here : I only ask a single 
question, — Is she your wife ? are you the father of her 
child ? 

Sandy [sinking upon his knees before her, and covering 
his face with his hands]. I am ! 

Miss Mary. Enough ! [lacing flower from her 
boso7n,.] Here, I give you back the flower you gave me 
this morning. It has faded and died here upon my breast. 
But I shall replace it with your foundling, — the child of 
that woman, born like that flower in the snow! And I go 
now, Sandy, and leave behind me, as you said this morning, 
the snow and rocks in which it bloomed. Good-by ! 
Farewell, farewell — forever ! [ Goes toward schoolhouse 
as — 

Enter Col. Starbottle. 

Miss Mary [to Starbottle]. You are here in season, 
sir. You must have come for an answer to your question. 
You must first give me one to mine. Who is this man 
[pointing to Sandy], the man you met upon the rocks this 
morning ? 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Col. Starhottle. Ahem ! I am — er — now fully pre- 
pared and responsible, I may say, miss — er — personally 
responsible, to answer that question. "When you asked it 
this morning, the ordinary courtesy of the — er — code of 
.honor threw a — er — cloak around the — er — antecedents 
of the — er — man whom I had — er — elected by a de- 
mand for personal satisfaction, to the equality of myself, an 
— er — gentleman ! That — er — cloak is now removed. 
I have waited six hours for an apology or a — er — reply to 
my demand. I am now free to confess that the — er — 
person you allude to was first known by me, three months 
ago, as an inebriated menial, — a groom in the house- 
hold of my friend Don Jose Castro, — by the — er — 
simple name of " Diego." 

Miss Mary \_slowly~\. I am satisfied. I accept my 
cousin's invitation. 

\_Exit slowly, supported hy Col. Starbottle, r. 

As Starbottle and Miss Mary exeunt r., Concho and 
Hop Sing enter cautiously, l. Sandy sloioly rises to 
his feet, passes his hand across his forehead, looTos 
around toward exit of Starbottle and Miss Mary. 

Sandy [sloivly, but with more calmness of demeanor'^. 
Gone, gone — forever ! No : I am not mad, nor crazed 
with drink. My hands no longer tremble. There is no 
confusion here. [Feeling his forehead.~\ I heard them 
all. It was no dream. I heard her every word. Alexan- 
der Morton, yes, they spoke of Alexander Morton. She is 
going to him, to my father. She is going — she, Mary, my 
cousin — she is going to my father. He has been seeking 
me — has found — ah! \_Groans.~\ No, no, Sandy! Be 
patient, be calm : you are not crazy — no, no, good Sandy, 
good old boy ! Be patient, be patient: it is coming, it 
is coming. Yes, I see : some one has leaped into my place ; 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 389 

Bome one has leaped into the old man's arms. Some one 
will creep into her heart ! No ! by God ! No ! I am 
Alexander Morton. Yes, yes ! But how, how shall I 
prove it ? — how ? Who [Concho steeps cautiously for- 
ward towards Sandy unobserved'] will believe the vaga^ 
bond, the outcast — my God ! — the crazy drunkard ? 

Concho [advancing and laying his hand on Sandy], 
I will ! 

Sandy [staggering hack amazedly']. You ! 

Concho, Yes, — I, I, — Concho ! You know me, 
Diego, you know me, — Concho, the major-domo of the 
Blessed Innocents. Ha ! You know me now. Yes, I 
have come to save you. I have come to make you strong. 
So — I have come to help you strip the Judas that has 
stepped into your place, — the sham prodigal that has had 
the fatted calf and the ring, — ah ! ah ! 

Sandy. You ? You do not know me ! 

Concho. Ah ! you think, you think, eh ? Listen : 
Since you left I have tracked him — the impostor, this 
Judas, this coyote — step by step, until his tracks crossed 
yours ; and then I sought you out. I know all. I found 
a letter you had dropped ; that brought me to Poker Flat. 
Ah, you start ! I have seen those who knew you as 
Alexander Morton. You see ! Ah, I am wise. 

Sandy [aside']. It is true. [Aloud.] But [suspi- 
ciously] why have you done this ? You, Concho ? — you 
were not my friend. 

Concho. No, but he is my enemy. Ah, you start! 
Look at me, Alexander Morton, Sandy, Diego ! You knew 
a man, strong, active, like yourself. Eh ! Look at me 
now ! Look at me, a cripple ! Eh ! lame and crushed 
here [pointing to his leg], broken and crushed here [point- 
ing to his heart], by him, — the impostor ! Listen, 
Diego. The night I was sent to track you from the rancho, 
he — this man '— struck me from the wall, dashed me to 



390 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

the earth, and made my body, broken and bruised, a step- 
ping-stone to leap the wall into your place, Diego, — into 
your father's heart, — into my master's home. They found 
me dead, they thought, — no, not dead, Diego ! It was sad, 
they said, — unfortunate. They nursed me ; they talked 
of money — eh, Diego ! — money ! They would have pen- 
sioned me to hush scandal — eh ! I was a dog, a foreigner, 
a Greaser ! Eh ! That is why I am here. No ! I love 
you not, Diego ; you are of his race j but I hate — Mother 
of God ! — I hate, him ! 

Sandy [rising to his feet, aside'\. Good ! I begin to 
feel my courage return : my nerves are stronger. Courage, 
Sandy ! [^Aloud.'] Be it so, Concho: there is my hand ! 
We will help each other, — you to my birthright, I to your 
revenge ! Hark ye ! [Sandy's manner becomes more calm 
and serious.^ This impostor is 710 craven, no coyote. 
Whoever he is, he must be strong. He has most plausible 
evidences. We must have rigid proofs. I will go with you 
to Poker Flat. There is one man, if he be living, knows 
me better than any man who lives. He has done me 
wrong, — a great wrong, Concho, — but I will forgive him,. 
I will do more, — I will ask his forgiveness. He will be 
a witness no man dare gainsay — my partner — God help 
him and forgive him as I do ! — John Oakhurst. 

Concho. Oakhurst your partner ! 

Sandy \_angrily~\. Yes. Look ye, Concho, he has 
wronged me in a private way : that is 7ny business, not 
yours; but he was my partner, no one shall abuse him 
before me. 

Concho. Be it so. Then sink here ! Kot here ! Go 
back to your husks, prodigal ! wallow in the ditches of 
this camp, and see your birthright sold for a dram of 
aguardiente ! Lie here, dog and coyote that you are, with 
your mistress under the protection of your destroyer ! Foi 
I tell you — I, Concho, the cripple — that the man whd 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 391 

struck me down, the man who stepped into your birthright, 
the man who to-morrow welcomes your sweetheart in his 
arms, who holds the custody of your child, is your partner, 
— John Oakhurst ! 

Sandy \_who has been sinking under Concho's words, 
rising convulsively to his feet~\. God be merciful to me a 
sinner ! \_Faints.~\ 

Concho {standing over his prostrate body exultingly"]. 
I am right. You are wise, Concho, you are wise ! You 
have found Alexander Morton ! 

ITop Sing {advancing slowly to Sandy's side, and 
extending open palrn]. Me washee shirt fio you, fiowty 
dozen hab. You no payee me. Me wantee twenty dollar 
hep. Sabe ! 

{Curtain.~\ 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT III 

Scene 1. — The hank parlor of Morton & Son, San 

Francisco. Room richly furnished ; two square library 

desks, left and right. At right, safe in wall ; at left, 

same with practicable doors. Folding-door in flat c, 

leading to counting-room,. Door in left to private room 

of Alexander Morton, Sr. ; door in right to private room 

of Morton, Jr. Alexander Morton, Sr., discovered 

at desk R., opening and reading letters. 

Morton, Sr. [laying down letter^ Well, well, the 

usual story ; letters from all sorts of people, who have dons 

or intend to do all sorts of things for my reclaimed prodigal. 

\Reads.'\ " Dear Sir : Five years ago I loaned' some money 

to a stranger who answers the description of your recovered 

son. He will remember Jim Parker, — Limping Jim, of 

Poker Flat. Being at present short of funds, please send 

twenty dollars, amount loaned, by return mail. If not 

convenient, five dollars will do as installment." Pshaw ! 

\_Throws letter aside, and takes up another.'] " Dear Sir : 

I invite your attention to inclosed circular for a proposed 

Home for Dissipated and Anonymous Gold-Miners. Your 

well-known reputation for liberality, and your late valuable 

experience in the reformation of your son, will naturally 

enlist your broadest sympathies. We inclose a draft for 

five thousand dollars, for your signature." We shall see ! 

Another : ^^ Dear Sir : The Society for the Formation of 

Bible Classes in the Upper Stanislaus acknowledge your 

recent munificent gift of five hundred dollars to the cause. 

Last Sabbath Brother Hawkins, of Poker Flat, related with 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 393 

touching effect the story of your prodigal to an assemblage 
of over two hundred miners. Owing to unusual expenses, 
we regret to be compelled to draw upon you for five hun- 
dred dollars more." So ! \_Piitting down letter.^ If we 
were given to pride and vainglory, we might well be puffed 
up with the fame of our works and the contagion of our 
example : yet I fear that with the worldly minded this 
praise of charity to others is only the prayerful expectation 
of some personal application to the praiser. [^Hings hand- 

bell'] 

Enter Jackson". 

[Tb Jackson.] File these letters \_handing letters] 
with the others. There is no answer. Has young Mr. 
Alexander come in yet ? 

Jackson. He only left here an hour ago. It was 
steamer day yesterday : he was up all night, sir. 

Old Morton [aside]. True. And the night before he 
traveled all night, riding two hours ahead of one of our 
defaulting agents, and saved the bank a hundred thousand 
dollars. Certainly his devotion to business is unremitting. 
\_Aloud. ] Any news from Colonel Starbottle ? 

Jackson. He left this note, sir, early this morning. 

Old Morton [takes it, and reads]. " I think I may say, 
on my own personal responsibility, that the mission is 
successful. Miss Morris will arrive to-night with a female 
attendant and child." [To Jackson.] That is all, sir. 
Stop ! Has any one been smoking here ? 

Jackson. Not to my knowledge, sir. 

Old Morton. There was a flavor of stale tobacco smoke 
in the room this morning when I entered, and ashes on the 
carpet. I know that young Mr. Alexander has abandoned 
the pernicious habit. See that it does not occur again. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. [Aside.] I must warn Mr. Alexan- 
der that his friends must be more careful ; and yet those 
nshea were good for a deposit of fifty thousand. 



394 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Old Morton. Is any one waiting ? 

Jackson. Yes, sir, — Don Jos^ Castro and Mr. Capper. 

Old Morton. Show in the Don: the policeman can 
%ait. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. \_Exit, 

Old Morton [taking up Starbottle's note]. " Miss 
Morris will arrive to-night." And yet he saw her only 
yesterday. This is not like her mother : no. She would 
never have forgiven and forgotten so quickly. Perhaps she 
knew not my sin and her mother's wrongs ; perhaps she 
has — has — Christian forgiveness [sarcastiGally~\ ; perhaps, 
like my prodigal, she will be immaculately perfect. Well, 
well ; at least her presence will make my home less lonely. 
" An attendant and child." A child ! Ah, if Ae, my boy, 
my Alexander, were still a child, I might warm this cold, 
cold heart in his sunshine ! Strange that I cannot recon- 
struct from this dutiful, submissive, obedient, industrious 
Alexander — this redeemed outcast, this son who shares my 
life, my fortunes, my heart — the foolish, willful, thought- 
less, idle boy that once defied me. I remember [musing, 
with a smile'] how the little rascal, ha, ha ! once struck me, 
— struck me ! — when I corrected him : ha, ha ! [Rubbing 
his hands with amusement, and then suddenly becoming 
grave and lugubrious.] No, no. These are the whisper- 
ings of the flesh. Why should I find fault with him for 
being all that a righteous conversion demands, — all that I 
asked and prayed for ? No, Alexander Morton : it is you, 
youy who are not yet regenerate. It is you who are ungrate' 
f ul to Him who blessed you, to Him whose guiding hand 
led you to — 

Enter Jackson. 

Jackson. Don Jose Castro. 

Enter Don Jose. 
Don Jose, A thousand pardons, senor, for interrupting 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 395 

you in the hours of business ; but it is — it is of business 
I would speak. \_Lookin(j aroiind.l^ 

Old MoHon \^to Jackson]. You can retire. \^Uxit 
Jackson.] Be seated, Mr. Castro : I am at your service. 

Don Jose. It is of your — your son — 

Old Morton. Our firm is Morton & Son : in business 
■we are one, Mr. Castro. 

Don Jose. Bueno ! Then to you as to him I will 
speak. Here is a letter I received yesterday. It has sig- 
nificance, importance perhaps. But whatever it is, it is 
something for you, not me, to know. If I am wronged 
much, Don Alexandro, you, you are wronged still more. 
Shall I read it ? Good. \_Reads.'] " The man to whom 
you have afiianced your daughter is not the son of Alexan- 
der Morton. Have a care. If I do not prove him an im- 
postor at the end of six days, believe me one, and not your 
true friend and servant, Concho." In six days, Don Alex- 
andro, the year of probation is over, and I have promised 
my daughter's hand to your son. \_IIands letter to Mor- 
ton.] 

Old Morton [ringing helV], Is that all, Mr. Castro ? 

Don Jose. All, Mr. Castro ? Carramba ! is it not 
enough ? 

Enter Jackson. 

Old Morton [to Jackson). You have kept a record of 
this business during the last eighteen months. Look at this 
letter. [Handing letter. ~\ Is the handwriting familiar ? 

Jackson [taking letter']. Can't say, sir. The form is 
the old one. 

Old Morton, How many such letters have you re- 
ceived ? 

Jackson. Four hundred and forty-one, sir. This is the 
four hundred and forty-second application for your son's 
position, sir. 



396 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Don Jose. Pardon. This is not an application : it ia 
only information or caution. 

Old Morton [to Jackson]. How many letters of in* 
formation or caution have we received ? 

Jackson, This makes seven hundred and eighty-one, 
sir. 

Old Morton. How, sir! \_Quickly.'] There were but 
seven hundred and seventy-nine last night. 

Jackson. Beg pardon, sir ! The gentleman who carried 
Mr. Alexander's valise from the boat was the seven hundred 
and eightieth. 

Old Morton. Explain yourself, sir. 

Jackson. He imparted to me, while receiving his sti- 
pend, the fact that he did not believe young Mr. Alexander 
"was your son. An hour later, sir, he also imparted to me 
confidentially that he believed you were his father, and 
requested the loan of five dollars, to be repaid by you, to 
enable him to purchase a clean shirt and appear before you 
in respectable condition. He waited for you an hour, and 
expressed some indignation that he had not an equal show 
with others, to throw himself into your arms. 

Don Jose {rising, aside, and uplifting his hands']* 
Carramba ! These Americanos are of the Devil ! [Aloud.] 
Enough, Don Alexandro ! Then you think this letter ia 
only worth — 

Old Morton. One moment. I can perhaps tell you ex- 
actly its market value. [To Jackson.] Go on, sir. 

Jackson. At half-past ten, sir, then being slightly under 
the influence of liquor, he accepted the price of a deck pas- 
sage to Stockton. * 

Old Morton. How much was that, sir ? 

Jackson. Fifty cents. 

Old Morton. Exactly so ! There you have, sir [to 
Don Jose], the market value of the information you have 
received. I would advise you, as a business matter, not to 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 397 

pay more. As a business matter, you can at any time draw 
upon us for the amount. \_To Jackson.] Admit Mr. 
Capper. \^Exit Jackson.] 

Do7i Jose [prising with dignity'\. This is an insult, Don 
Alexandro. 

Old Morton. You are wrong, Mr. Castro ; it is husi- 
ness ; sought, I believe, by yourself. Now that it is 
transacted, I beg you to dine with me to-morrow to meet 
my niece. No offense, sir, no offense. Come, come ! Busi- 
ness, you know, business. 

Don Jose [relaxing']. Be it so! I will come. [Aside.] 
These Americanos, these Americanos, are of the Devil ! 
[Aloud.] Adios. [Going.] I hear, by report, that you 
have met with the misfortune of a serious loss by robbery ? 

Old Morton [aside]. So our mishap is known every- 
where ! [Aloud.] No serious misfortune, Mr. Castro, 
even if we do not recover the money. Adios. 

[Exit Don Jos^. 

Old Morton. The stiff-necked Papist ! That he should 
dare, for the sake of his black-browed, froward daughter, to 
question the faith on which I have pinned my future ! 
Well, with God's blessing, I gave him some wholesome dis- 
cipline. If it were not for my covenant with Alexander, — 
and nobly he has fulfilled his part, — I should forbid his 
alliance with the blood of this spying Jesuit. 

Enter Mr. Jackson, leading in Capper. 
Jackson. Policeman, sir. [Exit, 

Capper [turning sharply]. Who 's that man ? 
Old Morton. Jackson, clerk. 
Capper. Umph ! Been here long ? 
Old Morton. A year. He was appointed by my son. 
Capper. Know anything of his previous life ? 
Old Morton [stiffly]. I have already told you he is an 
appointee of my son's. 



398 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAE 

Capper, Yes! [^AsideS] "Like master, like man." 
l^Aloud.^ Well, to business. We have worked up the 
robbery. We have reached two conclusions, — one, that 
the work was not done by professionals ; the other, conse- 
quent upon this, that you can't recover the money. 

Old Morton. Excuse me, sir, but I do not see the last 
conclusion. 

Capper. Then listen. The professional thief has only 
one or two ways of disposing of his plunder, and these 
ways are always well known to us. Good ! Your stolen 
coin has not been disposed of in the regular way, through 
the usual hands which we could at any time seize. Of this 
we are satisfied. 

Old Morton. How do you know it ? 

Capper. In this way. The only clew we have to the 
identification of the missing money were two boxes of Mex- 
ican doubloons. 

Old Morton [asideX Mr. Castro's special deposit ! He 
may have reason for his interest. [^Aloud.~\ Go on. 

Capper. It is a coin rare in circulation in the interior. 
The night after the robbery, the dealer of a monte-table in 
Sacramento paid out five thousand dollars in doubloons. 
He declared it was taken in at the table, and could not 
identify the players. Of course, of course! So far, you 
see, you are helpless. We have only established one fact, 
that the robber is — is — [significantly~\ a gambler. 

Old Morton \_quietly']. The regular trade of the thief 
seems to me to be of little importance if you cannot identify 
him or recover my money. But go on, sir, go on : or is 
this all ? 

Cappjer [aside']. The old fool is blind. That is natu- 
ral. [Aloud.'] It is not all. The crime will doubtless be 
repeated. The man who h^s access to your vaults, who 
has taken only thirty thousand dollars when he could have 
secured half a million, — this man, who has already gam- 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 399 

bled that thirty thousand away, — will not stop there. He 
mil in a day or two, perhaps to-day, try to retrieve his 
losses out of your capital. / am here to prevent it. 

Old Morton [hecoTning interested']. How ? 

Capper. Give me, for forty-eight hours, free access to 
this building. Let me conceal myself somewhere, anywhere, 
within these walls. Let it be without the knowledge of 
your clerks, even of your son ! 

Old Morton \jproudhj\, Mr. Alexander Morton is absent 
to-day. There is no other reason why he should not be 
here to consent to the acts of his partner and father. 

Capper \_quickly~\, Yery good. It is only to insure 
absolute secrecy. 

Old Morton \_aside~\. Another robbery might excite a 
suspicion, worse for our credit than our actual loss. There 
is a significant earnestness about this man that awakens my 
fears. If Alexander w^ere only here. [^Aloud.~\ I accept. 
[Capper has been trying doors k. and l.] 

Capper. What room is this ? [_At e.] 

Old Morton. My son's : I would prefer — ^ 

Capper. And this ? \^At l.] 

Old Morton. Mine, sir ; if you choose — 

Capper [locking door and putting key in his pocket"]. 
This will do. Oblige me by making the necessary arrange- 
ments in your counting-room. 

Old Morton [hesitating and aside]. He is right : per- 
haps it is only prudence, and I am saving Alexander ad- 
ditional care and annoyance. [^xit» 

Enter Mr. Shadow cautiously, c. 

Shadow [in a lisping whisper to Capper]. I 've got 
the litht of the clerkth complete. 

Capper [triumphantly]. Put it in your pocket. Shadow. 
We donH care for the lackeys now : we are after the mas* 
ter. 



400 TWO MEN OF SA:^DY BAR 

Shadow, Eh ! the mathter ? 

Capper, Yes : the master, — the young master, the r©« 
claimed son, the reformed prodigal ! ha, ha ! — the young 
man who compensates himself for all this austere devotion 
to business and principle by dipping into the old man's 
vaults when he wants a pasear : eh. Shadow ? That 's the 
man we 're after. Look here ! / never took any stock in 
that young man's reformation. Ye don't teach old sports 
like him new tricks. They 're a bad lot father and son, 
— eh. Shadow ? — and he 's a chip of the old block. I 
spotted him before this robbery, before we were ever called 
»n here professionally. I 've had my eye on Alexander 
Morton, alias John Oakhurst ; and, when I found the old 
man's doubloons raked over a monte-table at Sacramento, I 
knew where to look for the thief. Eh, Shadow ? 

Shadow \_asid6\. He ith enormouth, thith Mithter 
Capper. 

Enter Old Morton". 

Old Morton. I have arranged everything. You will not 
be disturbed or suspected here in my private office. Eh ! 
\_Looking at Shadow.] Who has slipped in here ? 

Capper. Only my Shadow, Mr. Morton ; but I can rid 

myself even of that. [Crosses to Shadow.] Take this 

card to the office, and wait for further orders. Vanish, 

Shadow ! [^Exit Shadow. 

Enter Jackson. 

Jachson, Mr. Alexander has come in, sir. [Old Mob- 
ton and Capper start. ~\ 

Old Morton. Where is he ? 

Jackson. In his private room, sir. 

Old Morton. Enough : you can go. \_Exit Jackson. 

Capper [crossing to Morton]. Remember, you have 
given your pledge of secrecy. Beware ! Your honor, your 
property, the credit and reputation of your bank, are at 
etake. * 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 401 

Old Morton [after a pause of hesitation^ with dignity'], 
I gave you my word, sir, while my son was not present. I 
shall save myself from breaking my w^ord with you, or con- 
cealing anything from him, by withdrawing myself. For 
the next twenty-four hours, this room [pointing to private 
room B.] is yours. 

JSach regards the other. Exit Old Morton c, as Cap- 
per exits in private room r. After a pause, door of 
room L. opens, and Harry York appears^ slightly in- 
toxicated, followed by John Oakhurst. 

Harry York [looking around]. By Jove ! Morton, but 
you Ve got things in style here. And this yer 's the gov'- 
nor's desk ; and here old Praise God Barebones sits opposite 
ye. Look yer, old boy [throwing himself in chair], I kin 
allow how it comes easy for ye to run this bank, for it 's 
about as exciting, these times, as faro was to ye in '49, 
when I first knew ye as Jack Oakhurst ; but how the devil 
you can sit opposite that stiff embodiment of all the Ten 
Commandments, day by day, damn it ! that 's wot gets 
me ! Why, the first day I came here on business, the old 
man froze me so that I could n't thaw a deposit out of my 
pocket. It chills me to think of it. 

Oakhurst [hastily], I suppose I am accustomed to him. 
But come, Harry : let me warm you. [ Opens door of safe 
L., and discovers cupboard, decanter, and glasses.] 

York [laughing]. By Jove ! under the old man's very 
nose. Jack, this is like you. [Takes a drink.] Well, 
old boy, this is like old times. But you don't drink ? 

Oakhurst, No, nor smoke. The fact is, Harry, I 've 
taken a year's pledge. I 've six days still to run ; after 
that [gloomily], why [with a reckless laugh], I shall be 
Jack Oakhurst again. 

York, Lord ! to think of your turning out to be any- 
body's son, Jack ! — least of all, his! [Pointing to chair. "^ 



402 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Oakhurst [laughing recklessly']. Not more strange than 
that I should find Harry York, the spendthrift of Poker 
Mat, the rich and respected Mr. York, produce merchant 
of San Francisco. 

York. Yes ; but, my boy, you see I did n't strike it — 
in a rich father. I gave up gambling, married and settled 
down, saved my money, invested a little here and there, 
and — worked for it, Jack, damn me, — worked for it like 
a damned horse ! 

Oakhurst [aside']. True, this is not work. 

York. But that ain't my business with ye now, old 
boy: it's this. You've had some trials and troubles in 
the bank lately, — a defalcation of agents one day, a robbery 
next. It's luck, my boy, luck! but ye know people will 
talk. You don't mind my sayin' that there 's rumors 
round. The old man 's mighty unpopular because he 's a 
saint ; and folks don't entirely fancy you because you used 
to be the reverse. Well, Jack, it amounts to 'bout this : 
I 've withdrawn my account from Parkinson's, in Sacramento, 
and I've got a pretty heavy balance on hand — nigh on 
two hundred thousand — in bonds and certificates here ; 
and if it will help you over the rough places, old boy, as a 
deposit, yer it is [drawing pocket-book']. 

Oakhurst [greatly affected^ hut endeavoring to conceal 
it]. Thank you, Harry, old fellow — but — 

York [quickly]. I know : I '11 take the risk, a business 
risk. You '11 stand by me all you can, old boy ; you '11 
make it pay all you can; and if you lose it — ^^why — all 
right ! 

Oakhurst [embarrassed]. As a deposit with Morton & 
Son, drawing two per cent monthly interest — 

York. Damn Morton & Son ! I '11 back it with Jack 
Oakhurst, the man I know. 

Oakhurst [advancing slowly]. I '11 take it, Harry. 

York [extending his hand]. It 's a square game, Jack! 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAE 403 

Oakhurst [seizing his hand with repressed emotion']. 
It 's a square game, Harry York, if I live. 

York, Then I '11 travel. Good-night, old boy. I ^1 
send my clerk around in the morning to put things right. 
Good-night \_going~\. 

Oakhurst [grasping York's hand']. One moment — 
no — nothing ! Good-night. [Exit York. 

Oakhurst follows him to door^ and then returns to desk, 
throwing himself in chair, and burying his face in his 
hands, 

Oakhurst [with deep feeling]. It needed but this to 
fill the measure of my degradation. I have borne the sus- 
picions of the old man's enemies, the half-pitying, half- 
contemptuous sympathy of his friends, even his own cold, 
heartless, fanatical fulfillment of his sense of duty ; but this 
— this confidence from one who had most reason to scorn 
me, this trust from one who knew me as I was, — this is 
the hardest burden. And he, too, in time will know me 
to be an impostor. He too — a reformed man ; but he has 
honorably retraced his steps, and won the position I hold 
by a trick, an imposture. And what is all my labor beside 
his honest sincerity ? I have fought against the chances 
that might discover my deception, against the enemies who 
would overthrow me, against the fate that put me here ; 
and I have been successful — yes, a successful impostor ! 
I have even fought against the human instinct that told this 
fierce, foolish old man that I was an alien to his house, to 
his blood; I have even felt him scan my face eagerly for 
some reflection of his long-lost boy, for some realization of 
his dream; and I have seen him turn away, cold, heartsick, 
and despairing. What matters that I have been to him 
devoted, untiring, submissive, ay, a better son to him than 
his own weak flesh and blood would have been ? He would 
to-morrow cast me forth to welcome the outcast, Sandy 



404 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Morton. Well, what matters ? {^Recldessly !^ Nothing. 
In six days it will be over ; in six days the year of my 
probation will have passed ; in six days I will disclose to 
him the deceit I have practiced, and will face the world 
again as John Oakhurst the gambler, who staked and lost 
all on a single cast. And Jovita I Well, well ! — the 
game is made : it is too late to draw out now. \^Rings hell. 
Enter Jackson.] Who has been here ? 

Jackson. Only Don Jos^, and Mr. Capper the detective. 

Oakhurst. The detective ? What for ? 

Jackson. To work up the robbery, sir. 

Oakhurst. True ! Capper, Capper, yes ! A man ot 
wild and ridiculous theories, but well meaning, brave, and 
honest. [^Aside^l This is the old man's idea. He does 
not know that I was on the trail of the thieves an hour be- 
fore the police were notified. [Aloud.'] Well, sir ? 

Jackson. He told your father he thought the recovery 
of the money hopeless, but he came to caution us against a 
second attempt. 

Oakhurst [aside, starting]. True ! I had not thought 
of that. [Excitedly.] The success of their first attempt 
will incite them to another ; the money they have stolen is 
gone by this time. [Aloud.] Jackson, I will stay here 
to-night and to-morrow night, and relieve your regular 
watchman. You will, of course, say nothing of my in- 
tention. 

Jackson. Yes, sir. [Lingering.] 

Oakhurst [after a pause]. That is all, Mr. Jackson. 

Jackson. Beg your pardon, Mr. Morton ; but Colonel 
Starbottle, with two ladies, was here half an hour ago, and 
said they would come again when you were alone. 

Oakhurst. Very well : admit them. 

Jackson. Beg pardon, sir ; but they seemed to avoid 
seeing your father until they had seen you. It looked mys- 
terious, and I thought I would tell you first. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 405 

Oakhurst [lauf/hing]. Admit them, Mr. Jackson. 
\_Exit Jackson.] This poor fellow^s devotion is increas- 
ing. He, too, believes that his old associate in dissipation, 
John Oakhurst, is the son of Alexander Morton. He, too, 
will have to share in the disgrace of the impostor. Ladies ! . 
umph ! {^Looking down at his clothes.^ I'm afraid the 
reform of Alexander Morton has n't improved the usual 
neatness of John Oakhurst. I have n't slept, nor changed 
my clothes, for three days. \^Goes to door of Morton, 
Sr.^s, room."] Locked, and the key on the inside! That's 
strange. Nonsense ! the old man has locked his door, and 
gone out through the private entrance. Well, I'll find 
means of making my toilet here. 

[^Exit into private room L. 

^wifer Jackson, leading in Col. Starbottle, Miss Mary, 
the Duchess, and child of three years. 

Jackson, Mr. Alexander Morton, Jr., is in his private 
room. He will be here in a moment. '[Exit Jackson. 

Starbottle, One moment, a single moment, Miss Mary* 
Permit me to — er — if I may so express myself, to — er 
— group the party, to — er — place the — er — present 
company into position. I have — er — observed as part of 
my — er — legal experience, that in cases of moral illustra- 
tion a great, I may say — er — tremendous, effect on the — 
er — jury, I mean the — er — guilty party, has been pro- 
duced by the attitude of the — er — victim and martyr. 
You, madam, as the — er — injured wife [placing her ], 
shall stand here, firm yet expectant, protecting your child, 
yet looking hopefully for assistance toward its natural pro- 
tector. You, Miss Mary, shall stand here [placing her'], 
as Moral Retribution, leaning toward and slightly appealing 
to me, the image of — er — er — Inflexible Justice ! [In^ 



406 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

flates his chesty puts his hand in his hosom, and strikes 
an attitude.^ 

Door of young Morton's room opens, and discloses Mr. 
Oakhukst gazing at the group. He starts slightly on 
observing the Duchess, but instantly recovers himself , 
and faces the company coldly. The Duchess starts on 
observing Oakhurst, and struggles in confusion towards 
the door, dragging with her the child and Miss Mary, 
who endeavors to reassure her. Col. Starbottle looks 
in astonishment from, one to the other, and advances to 
front. 

Col. Starbottle [^aside"]. The — er — tableau, although 
striking in moral force, is apparently — er — deficient in 
moral stamina. 

Miss Mary [angrily to the Duchess]. I 'm ashamed 
of you ! [To Oakhurst, advancing. ~\ I don't ask pardon 
for my intrusion. If you are Alexander Morton, you are 
my kinsman, and you will know that I cannot introduce 
myself better than as the protector of an injured woman. 
Come here ! [To the Duchess, dragging her towards 
Oakhurst.] [To Oakhurst.] Look upon this woman: 
she claims to be — 

Starbottle [stepping between Miss Mary and the 
Duchess]. A moment. Miss Mary, a single moment ! 
Permit me to — er — explain. The whole thing, the — er 
— situation reminds me, demn me, of most amusing incident 
at Sacramento in ^o2. Large party at Hank Suedecois' : 
know Hank ? 'Confirmed old bach of sixty. Dinner for 
forty. Everything in style, first families, Ged, — Judge 
Beeswinger, Mat Boompointer, and Maje Blodgett of Ahla- 
bam' : know old Maje Blodgett? Well, Maje was there. 
Ged, sir, delay, — everybody waiting. I went to Hank. 
" Hank," I says, " what 's matter ? why delay ? '' — ^ 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 407 

" Star/' he says, — always called me Star, — " Star, — it 's 
cook ! " — " Demn cook," I says : " discharge cook, — only 
a black mulatto any way ! " " Can't, Star," he says : " im- 
possible ! " — '' Can't ? " says I. " No," says he. " Lis- 
ten, Star," he says, ^' family secret ! Honor ! Can't 
discharge cook, because cook — demn it — 's my wife / " 
Fact, sir, fact — showed marriage certificate — married pri- 
vately seven years ! Fact, sir — 

The Duchess [to Miss Mary]. Some other time, miss. 
Let us go now. There 's a mistake, miss, I can't explain. 
Some other time, miss ! See, miss, how cold and stern he 
looks ! another time, miss ! {^Struggling. ~\ For God's sake, 
miss, let me go ! 

Miss Mary. No ! This mystery must be cleared up 
now, before I enter his house, — before I accept the charge 
of this — 

Starbottle [interru^^ting and crossing before Miss 
Mary]. A moment — a single moment, miss. {To Oak- 
hurst.] Mr. Morton, you will pardon the exuberance, and 
j)erhaps, under the circumstances, somewhat natural impul- 
siveness, of the — er — sex, for which I am perhaps re- 
sponsible ; I may say — er — personally, sir, — personally 
responsible — 

Oakhurst {coldly']. Go on, sir. 

Starbottle. The lady on my right is — er — the niece of 
your father, — your cousin. The lady on my left, engaged 
in soothing the — er — bashful timidity of infancy, is — er 
— that is — er — claims to be, the mother of the child of 
Alexander Morton. 

Oakhurst {calmly']. She is right. 

Miss Mary {rushing forward]. Then you are — 

Oakhurst {gently resti'aining her]. You have another 
question to ask ; you hesitate : let me ask it. {Crossing to 
the Duchess.] You have heard my answer. Madam, are 
you the legal wife of Alexander Morton ? 



408 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

The Duchess [sinking upon her knees ^ and dropping hef 
face in her hands']. Ko ! 

Oakhurst. Enough : I will take the child. Pardon me, 
Miss Morris, but you have heard enough to know that your 
mission is accomplished, but that what else passes between 
this woman and myself becomes no stranger to hear. [Jfb- 
tions toward room l.] 

Miss Mary [aside]. It is his son. I am satisfied 
[going]. Come, colonel. [Exeunt into room l., Star- 
bottle and Miss Mary.] 

The Duchess [crossing to Oakhurst, and falling at 
his feet]. Forgive me, Jack, forgive me ! It was no fault 
of mine. I did not know that you were here. I did not 
know that you had taken his name ! 

Oakhurst. Hush — on your life ! 

The Duchess. Hear me, Jack ! I was anxious only 
for a home for my child. I came to her — the school- 
mistress of E,ed Gulch — for aid. I told her the name of 
my boy's father. She — she brought me here. Oh, for- 
give me, Jack ! I have offended you ! 

Oakhurst. How can I believe you ? You have deceived 
him — you have deceived me. Listen! When I said, a 
moment ago, you were not the wife of Alexander Morton, 
it was because I knew that your first husband — the Aus- 
tralian convict Pritchard — was still living ; that you had 
deceived Sandy Morton as you had deceived me. That was 
why I left you. Tell me, have you deceived me also about 
him, as you did about the other ? Is he living, and with 
you ; or dead, as you declared ? 

The Duchess [aside]. He will kill me if I tell him. 
[Aloud.] No, no. He is gone — is dead these three years. 

Oakhurst. You swear ! 

The Duchess [hesitates, gasps, and looks around for 
her child ; then seizing it, and drawing it toward her]* 
I — swear. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 409 

Oakhurst. Enough. Seek not to know why / am 
here, and under his name. Enough for you that it has 
saved your child's future, and secured him his heritage past 
all revocation. Yet remember ! a word from you within 
the next few days destroys it all. After that, I care not 
what you say. 

The Duchess. Jack ! One word, Jack, before I go. I 
never thought to bring my shame to you ! — to him ! 

Oakhurst. It was no trick, then, no contrivance, that 
brought her here. No : it was fate. And at least I shall 
save his child. 

Reenter Stakbottle, Miss Mary, and Duchess. 

Col. Starhottle [impressively']. Permit me, Mr. Alex- 
ander Morton, as the friend of my — er — principal, to de- 
clare that we have received — honorable — honorable — 
satisfaction. Allow me, sir, to grasp the hand, the — er — 
cherished hand of a gentleman who, demn me ! has fulfilled 
all his duties to — er — society and gentlemen. And allow 
me to add, sir, should any invidious criticism of the present 
- — er — settlement be uttered in my presence, I shall hold 
that critic responsible, sir — er — personally responsible ! 

Miss Mary [sweeping truculently and aggressively up 
to John Oakhurst.] And permit me to add, sir, that, if 
you can see your way clearly out of this wretched muddle, 
it 's more than I can. This arrangement may be according 
to the Californian code of morality, but it does n't accord 
with my Eastern ideas of right and wrong. If this fool- 
ish, wretched creature chooses to abandon all claim upon 
you, chooses to run away from you, — why, I suppose, as a 
gentleman, according to your laws of honor, you are ab- 
solved. Good-night, Mr. Alexander Morton. [Goes to 
door c, and exit, pushing out Starbottle, the Duchess, 
and child. Mr. Oakhurst sinks into chair at desk, hury- 
ing his face in his hands, Reenter slowly and emhar^ 



410 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

rassedly, Miss Mary : looks toward Oakhubst, and 
conies sloivly doivn stage.^ 

Miss Mary \_aside]. I was too hard on him. I was 
not so hard on Sandy, when I thought that he — he — was 
the father of her child. And he 's my own flesh and blood, 
too; and — he ^scrying. \_Aloud.~\ Mr. Morton. 

Oakhurst \slowly lifting his head~\. Yes, Miss Mary. 

Miss Mary. I spoke hastily just then. I — I thought — 
you see — I — \_angrily and passionately"] I mean this. 
I 'm a stranger. I don't understand your Californian ways, 
and I don't want to. But I believe you 've done what you 
thought was right, according to a inan^s idea of right ; and 
— there 's my hand. Take it, take it ; for it 's a novelty, 
Mr. Morton : it 's the hand of an honest girl ! 

Oakhurst \_hesitates, then rises, sinks on one knee^ and 
raises Miss Mary's fingers to his lips'], God bless you, 
miss ! God bless you ! 

Miss Mary {retreating to centre door]. Good-night, 
good-night [slowly] — cousin — Alexander. 

\_Exit. Dark stage. 

Oakhurst [rising swiftly]. No, no ; it is false ! Ah ! 
She 's gone. Another moment, and I would have told her 
all. Pshaw ! courage, man ! It is only six days more, and 
you are free, and this year's shame and agony forever ended. 

Enter Jackson. 

Jackson, As you ordered, sir, the night watchman has 
been relieved, and has just gone. 

Oakhurst. Very good, sir ; and you ? 

Jackson, I relieved the porter, sir ; and I shall bunk 
on two chairs in the counting-room. You '11 find me handy, 
if you want me, sir. Good-night, sir. 

[Exit c. 

Oakhurst, I fear these rascals will not dare to make 
their second attempt to-night. A quiet scrimmage with 
them — enough to keep me awake or from thinking-— 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 411 

would be a good fortune. No, no ! no such luck for you 
to-night, John Oakhurst ! You are playing a losing game. 
. . . Yet the robbery was a bold one. At eleven o'clock, 
while the bank was yet lighted, and Mr. Jackson and 
another clerk were at work here, three well-dressed men 
pick the lock of the counting-house door, enter, and turn llie 
key on the clerks in this parlor, and carry away a box of 
doubloons not yet placed in the vaults by the porter ; and 
all this done so cautiously that the clerks within knew 
nothing of it until notified of the open street-door by the 
private watchman, and so boldly that the watchman, seeing 
them here, believed them clerks of the bank, and let them 
go unmolested. No : this was the coincidence of good luck, 
not of bold premeditation. There will be no second at- 
tempt. [ Yawns.^ If they don't come soon I shall fall 
asleep. Four nights without rest will tell on a man, un- 
less he has some excitement to back him. [^JVods.l^ Hallo ! 
What was that ? Oh ! Jackson in the counting-room getting 
to bed. I '11 look at that front-door myself. [^Takes revol- 
ver from deskf and goes to door c, tries lock, comes down 
stage with revolver, examines it, and lays it down."] 

Oakhurst \_slowly and quietly']. The door is locked on 
the outside : that may have been an accident. The caps are 
taken from my pistol : that was not ! Well, here is the 
vault, and here is John Oakhurst : to reach the one, they 
must pass the other. \_Takes off his coat, seizes poker from, 
grate, and approaches safe.] Ha ! some one is moving in 
the old man's room. [^Approaches door ofrooTn u. as — 

Enter noiselessly and cautiously from room l., Pritch- 
ARD, Silky, and Soapy. Pritchard and his confed* 
erates approach Oakhurst from behind^ carrying lo/- 
riat, or slip-noose. 

Oakhurst [listening at door r.]. Good. At least I 
know from what quarter to expect the attack. Ah I 



412 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

pRiTCHAKD throws sUp-Tioose over Oakhuest from he* 

hind ; Oakhurst puts his hand in his breast as the 

slip-noose is drawn across his bosom, pinioning one arm 

over his breast, and the other at his side. Silky and 

Soapy, dij^eeted by Pritchard, drag Oakhurst to 

chair facing front, and pinion his legs, Pritchard 

c, regarding him. 

Oakhurst [very coolly']. You have left me my voice, 
I suppose, because it is useless. 

Pritchard. That 's so, pard. 'T won't be no help to ye. 

Oakhurst. Then you have killed Jackson. 

Pritchard. Lord love ye, no! That ain't like us, 
pard ! Jackson 's tendin' door for us, and kinder lookin' 
out gin'rally for the boys. Thar 's nothin' mean about 
Jackson. 

Soapy ^ No ! Jackson 's a squar man. Eh, Silky ? 

Silky. Ez white a man ez they is, pard ! 

Oakhurst [aside']. The traitor ! [Aloud.] Well ! 

Pritchard. Well, you want ter know our business. 
Call upon a business man in business hours. Our little 
game is this, Mr. Jack Morton Alexander Oakhurst. When 
we was here the other night, we was wantin' a key to that 
theer lock [pointing to vault], and we sorter dropped in in 
passin' to get it. 

Oakhurst. And suppose I refuse to give it up ? 

Pritchard. We were kalkilatin' on yer bein' even that 
impolite ; was n't we, boys ? 

Silky and Soapy. We was that. 

Pritchard. And so we got Mr. Jackson to take an im- 
pression of it in wax. Oh, he 's a squar man — is Mr. Jack- 
&Dn! 

Silky. Jackson is a white man. Soapy ! 

Soapy. They don't make no better men nor Jackson, 
Silky. 

Pritchard. And we 've got a duplicate key here. But 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 413 

we don't want any differences, paid : we only want a squar 
game. It seemed to ns — some of your old pards as knew 
ye, Jack — that ye had a rather soft thing here, reformin' ; 
and we thought ye was kinder throwin' off the boys, not 
givin' 'em any hand in the game. But thar ain't anythin' 
mean about us. Eh, boys ? 

Soapy. We is allers ready to chip in ekal in the game. 
Eh, Silky ? 

Silky. That 's me, Soapy. 

Pritchard. Ye see, the boys is free and open handed, 
Jack. And so the proposition we wanter make to ye. Jack, 
is this. It 's reg'lar on the squar. We reckon, takin' Mr. 
Jackson's word, — and thar ain't no man's word ez is better 
nor Jackson's, — that there's nigh on to two millions in 
that vault, not to speak of a little speshil de-posit o' York's, 
ez we learn from that accommodatin' friend, Mr. Jackson. 
We propose to share it with, ye, on ekil terms — us live — 
countin' Jackson, a squar man. In course, we takes the 
risk o' packin' it away to-night comfortable. Ez your friends, 
Jack, we allow this yer little arrangement to be a deuced 
sight easier for you than playin' Sandy Morton on a riglar 
salary, with the chance o' the real Sandy poppin' in upon 
ye any night. 

Oakhurst. It 's a lie. Sandy is dead. 

Fritchard. In course, in course ! that is your little 
game ! But we kalkilated. Jack, even on that, on yer bein' 
rambunktious and contrary j and so we went ter Bed Gulch, 
and found Sandy. Ye know I take a kind o' interest in 
Sandy : he 's the second husband of my wife, the woman 
you run away with, pard. But thar 's nothin' mean about 
me ! eh, boys ? 

Silky. No ! he 's the forgivingest kind of a man, is 
Pritchard. 

Soapy. That 's so. Silky. 

Pritchard, And thinkin' ye might be dubious, we filled 



414 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Sandy about full o' rye- whiskey, and brought him along j 
and one of our pards is preambulatin' the streets with him, 
ready to bring him on call. 

Oakhurst. It 's a lie, Pritchard, — a cowardly lie ! 

JPritchard. Is it ? Hush ! 

Sandy \_without, singing'] — 

Oh, yer 's yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, yer 's yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 
Oh, yer 's yer Sandy Morton, 

All alive and just a-snortin'! 
Oh, yer' s yer Sandy Morton, 

Drink him down ! 

Pritchard. We don't propose to run him in yer, 'cept 
we 're took, or yer unaccommodatin' to the boys. 

Oakhurst. And if I refuse ? 

Pritchard. Why, we '11 lake what we can get ; and 
we '11 leave Sandy Morton with you yer, to sorter allevi- 
ate the old man's feelin's over the loss of his money. 
There 's nothin' mean about us; no! eh, boys? [^Going 
toward safe.] 

Oakhurst. Hear me a moment, Henry Pritchard. 
[Pbitchakd stops abreast of Oakhukst.] Four years 
ago you were assaulted in the Arcade Saloon in Sacra- 
mento. You would have been killed, but your assailant 
suddenly fell dead by a pistol-shot fired from some unknown 
hand. I stood twenty feet from you with folded arms ; 
but that shot was fired by me, — me, Henry Pritchard, — 
through my clothes, from a derringer hidden in my waist- 
coat ! Understand me, I do not ask your gratitude now. 
But that pistol is in my right hand, and now covers you. 
Make a single motion, — of a muscle, — and it is your 
last. 

Pritchard [motionless, but excitedly]. You dare not 
fire ! No, dare not ! A shot here will bring my pal and 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 41$ 

Sandy Morton to confront you. You will have killed me 
to save exposure, have added murder to imposture ! You 
have no witness to this attempt ! 

Cap'per \_opening door of room l., at the same moment 
that two policemen appear at door c, and two at room r.] 
You are wrong : he has five [crossing to Silky and Soapy, 
and laying his hands on their shoulders ] ; and, if I mis- 
take not, he has two more in these gentlemen, whom I 
know, and who will he quite as willing to furnish the ne- 
cessary State's evidence of the robhery as of the fact that 
they never knew any other Alexander Morton than the gen- 
tleman who sits in that chair. 

Soapy, That 's so, Silky. 

Silky. That 's so. Soapy. 

Capper [to policemen"]. Take them away. 

[£Jxit policemen ivith Pkitchard, Soapy, and Silky. 

Capper unbinds Oakhurst. 

Oakhurst, Then I have to thank you, Mr. C. 

Capper. Yes ! ^' A man of ridiculous theories, but 
well meaning, brave, and honest." No, sir ; don't apolo- 
gize : you were right, Mr. Oakhurst. It is I who owe you 
an apology. I came here, believing you were the robber, 
having no faith in you or your reformation, expecting, — 
yes, sir, — hoping, to detect you in the act. Hear me ! 
Erom the hour you first entered the bank, I have shadowed 
your every movement, I have been the silent witness of all 
that has passed in this room. You have played a desper- 
ate game, Mr. Oakhurst ; but I '11 see you through it. If 
you are true to your resolve, for the next six days, I will 
hold these wretches silent. I will protect your imposture 
with the strong arm of the law. I don't like yoitr theo- 
ries, sir ; but I believe you to be well meaning, and I know 
you to be brave and honest. 

Oakhurst [grasping his hand], I shall not forget tjiis. 
But Sandy. — ^ 



416 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Capper. I will put my men on his track, and have him 
brought quietly here. I can give you no aid beyond that. 
As an honorable man, I need not tell you your duty. Set- 
tle it with him as best you can. 

Oakhurst. You are right ; I will see him ! [^Aside."^ 
Unless he has changed, he will listen to me, he will obey 
me. 

Capper, Hush ! [^Blows out candle.'] Stand here ! 

Capper and Oakhurst retreat to wing l., as enter Mor- 
ton, Sr.y from room r. 

Morton. The private door open, the room dark, and 
Capper gone. I don't like this. The more I think of the 
mystery of that man's manner this morning, the more it 
seems to hide some terrible secret I must fathom ! There 
are matches here. \_Strikes a light, as Capper draws 
Oakhurst, struggling, hack into shadow.] What 's this ? 
\_Picking up key.] The key of the vault. A chair over- 
turned. \_TouGhes bell.] No answer! Jackson gone I 
My God ! A terrible suspicion haunts me ! No. Hush I 
\_Retreats to private room r., as door q/*L. opens and — 

Enter Sandy. 

Sandy [drunkenly]. Shoo ! Shoo ! boys, whar are ye, 
boys, eh ? Pritchard, Silky, Soapy ! Whar are ye, boys ? 

Morton [^aside]. A crime has been committed, and here 
is one of the gang. God has delivered him into my hands. 
[Draws revolver and fires, as Oakhurst breaks from 
Capper, and strikes up Morton's pistol. Capper at 
same moment seizes Sandy, and drags him in room l. 
Morton and Oakhurst struggle to centre. 

Morton [^relaxing hold of Oakhurst]. Alexander ! 
Good God ! Why are you here ? Why have you stepped 
between me and retribution ? You hesitate. God in 
heaven ! Speak, Alexander, my son, speak for God's sake I 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 417 

Tell me — tell me that this detective's suspicions are not 
true. Tell me that you are not — not — no, I cannot say 
it. Speak, Alexander Morton, I command you ! Who is 
this man you have saved ? Is it — is it — your accom- 
plice ? 

Oakhurst {^sinking at his feet ]. Don't ask me ! You 
know not what you ask ! I implore you — 

Capper [^appearing quietly from room l., and locking 
the door behind him"]. Your son has acted under my or- 
ders. The man he has saved, as he has saved you,. was a 
decoy, — one of my policemen. 



TABLEAU 

Capper, Morton, Oakhurst 

[^Curtain.'] 

END OF ACT III, 



ACT IV 

Scene 1. — Mr. Morton's villa, Russian Hill. Night, 
Oakhurst's hedroom. Sofa in alcove c, door in fiat 
left of c. Sandy Morton discovered, unconscious, 
lying on sofa ; Oakhurst standing at his head, two 
policemen at his feet. Candles on table l. 
Oakhurst. That will do. You are sure he was uncon- 
scious as you brought him in ? 

1st Policeman. Sure, sir ? He has n't known any- 
thing since we picked him up on the sidewalk outside the 
"bank. 

Oakhurst. Good ! You have fulfilled your orders 
well, and your chief shall know it. Go now. Be as 
cautious in going out as you were on entering. Here is the 
private staircase. \_Opens door 'L.~\ \_Exit policemen, 

Oakhurst [listening']. Gone ! and without disturbing 
any one. So far, luck has befriended me. He will sleep 
to-night beneath his father's roof. His father ! umph ! 
would the old man recognize him here ? Would he take 
to his heart this drunken outcast, picked from the gutters 
of the street, and brought here by the strong arm of the 
law ? Hush ! \_A knock without.] Ah, it is the colo- 
nel : he is prompt to the hour. \_Opens door cautiously, 
and admits Col. Starbottle.] 

Starbottle [looking around, and overlooking Sandy]. 
I presume the other — er — principal is not yet on the 
ground ? 

Oakhurst [motioning to sofa]. He is ! 

Starbottle [starting as he looks towards sofa]. G«d, 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 419 



V 



you don't mean to say it 's all ovevy without witnesses, with- 
out my — er — presence ? 

Oakhurst. Pardon me, Colonel Starbottle ; but if you 
look again, you will perceive that the gentleman is only 
drunk. 

Starbottle. Eh ? Ged, not uncommon, sir, not uncom- 
mon ! I remember singular incident at — er — Louisville 
in '47. Old Judge ToUim ~ know old Judge Tolly ? — 
Gred ! he came to ground drunk, sir; couldn't stand ! Demn 
me, sir, had to put him into position with kitchen poker 
down his back, and two sections of lightning-rod in his — 
er — trousers, demn me ! Firm, sir, firm, you understand, 
here [^striking his breast'], but — here [_striking his legs'] 
— er — er — wobbly ! No, sir ! Intoxication of principal 
not a bar, sir, to personal satisfaction ! [ Goes toward sofa 
with eyeglass.] Good Ged ! why, it's Diego! \_Eeturn- 
ing stiffly to Oakhurst.] Excuse me, sir, but this is a 
case in which I cannot act. Cannot, sir, — impossible ! ab- 
surd ! pre — post — er — ous ! I recognize in the — er — 
inebriated menial on yonder sofa, a person, sir, who, having 
already declined my personal challenge, is — er — excluded 
from the consideration of gentlemen. The person who lies 
there, sir, is Diego — a menial of Don Jose Castro, — alias 
" Sandy,'' the vagabond of E^d Gulch. 

Oakhurst. You have omitted one title, his true one. 
He is Alexander Morton, the son of the master of this 
house. 

Starbottle \_starting in bewilderment']. Alexander Mor- 
ton ! \_Aside.] Ged ! my first suspicions were correct. 
Star, you have lost the opportunity of making your fortune 
as a scoundrel ; but you have, at a pecuniary sacrifice, pre- 
served your honor. 

Oakhurst. Yes. Hear me. Colonel Starbottle. I have 
summoned you here to-night, as I have already intimated, 
on an affair of honor. I have sought you as my father's 



420 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

legal counsel, as a disinterested witness, as a gentleman of 
honor. The man who lies before you was once my friend 
and partner. I have wronged him doubly. As his partner 
I ran away with the woman he believed, and still believeSjj 
to be his wife ; as his friend I have for a twelvemonth 
kept him from the enjoyment of his home, his patrimony^ 
by a shameful deception. I have summoned you to-night 
to witness my confession ; as a lawyer, to arrange those de- 
tails necessary to restore to him his property ; as a man of 
honor, to receive from me whatever retribution he demands. 
You will be a witness to our interview. Whatever befalls 
me here, you will explain to Mr. Morton — to Jovita — 
that I accepted it as a man, and did not avoid here or else- 
where the penalty of my crime. \_Folding his arms.'] 

Starhottle. Umph ! The case is, as you say, a deli- 
cate one, but not — not — peculiar. No, sir, Ged ! sir, I 
remember Tom Marshall — know Tom Marshall of Ken- 
tucky ? — said to me, " Star ! '' — always calls me Star, — 
" how in blank, sir, can you remember the real names of 
your clients ? " — " Why," says I, " Tom," — always called 
him Tom, — "yesterday I was called to make a will- — 
most distinguished family of Virginia — as lawyer and gen- 
tleman, you understand : can't mention name. Waited for 
signature — most distinguished name : Gi-ed, sir, man signed 
Bloggins, — Peter Bloggins. Fact, demme ! ' Mistake,' I 
said, — * excitement ; exaltation of fever. Non compos. 
Compose yourself. Bob.' — * Star,' he said, — always called 
me Star, — ' for forty-seven years I have been an impos- 
tor ! ' — his very words, sir. ' I am not ' you under- 
stand, ' I am Peter Bloggins ! ' " 

Oakhurst. But, my dear colonel, I — 

Starhottle [loftily']. Say no more, sir ! I accept the 
— er — position. Let us see ! The gentleman Will, on 
recognition, probably make a personal attack. You are 
armed. Ah, no? Umph! On reflection I would not 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 421 

permit him to strike a single blow : I would anticipate it. 
It would provoke the challenge from him, leaving you, sir, 
the — er — choice of weapons. 

Oakhurst. Hush ! he is moving ! Take your stand 
here, in this alcove. Eemember, as a gentleman, and a man. 
of honor. Colonel Starbottle, I trust you not to interfere 
between the injured man and — justice! [^Pushes Col. 
Starbottle into alcove behind conchy and approaches 
Sandy.] 

Sandy [waking slowly — and incoherently'\. Hush, 
Silky ! Hush ! Eh ? Oh, hush yourself ! \_Sings,'\ 

Oh, yer 's yer Sandy Morton, 
Drink him down I 

Eh ! Oh ! [Half sits up on couch,'] Eh ! [Looking 
around him.'] Where the devil am I ? 

Oakhurst [advancing a.nd leaning over Sandy's couch]. 
In the house of your father, Alexander Morton. 

fSandy [recoiling in astonishment]. His voice, John 
Oakhurst ! What — ah ! [Eises, and rushes towards 
Oakhurst with uplifted hand.] 

Starbottle [gesticulating in whisper], A blow ! a sin- 
gle blow would be sufficient. 

Sandy [looking at Oakhurst, who regards him calmly], 

J eh ! I — eh ! Ha, ha ! I 'm glad to see — old pard ! 

I 'm glad to see ye ! [Col. Starbottle lifts his hand in 
amazement.] 

Oakhurst [declining his ha7id]. Do you understand 
me, Sandy Morton ? Listen. I am John Oakhurst, — the 
man who has deceived your father, who has deceived you. 

Sandy [without heeding his words, but regarding him 
(Affectionately], To think of it — Jack Oakhurst! It's 
like him, like Jack. He was allers onsartain, the darned 
little cuss ! Jack ! Look at him, will ye, boys ? look at 
him ! Growed too, and dressed to kill, and sittin' in this 



422 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

yer house as natril as a jay-bird ! \_Looldng around.'] 
Nasty, ain't it, Jack? and this yer 's your house — the old 
man's house — eh ? Why, this is — this is where she came. 
Jack, Jack ! \_Eagerly.'] Tell me, pard, — where is she ? 

Starhottle \_aside, rubbing his hands~\. We shall have it 
now ! 

OakJiurst. She has gone, — gone ! But hear me ! She 
had deceived you as she has me. She has gone, — gone 
with her first husband, Henry Pritchard. 

Sandy [stupefied]. Gone ! Her first husband ! Pritch- 
ard ! 

Oakhurst. Ay, your wife ! 

Sandy. Oh, damn my wife ! I 'm talking of Mary, — 
Miss Mary, — the little schoolma'am, Jack ; the little rose 
of Poker Flat. Oh ! I see — ye did n't know her, Jack, 
— the pertiest, sweetest little — 

Oakhurst [turning away coldly]. Ay, ay ! She is 
here ! 

Sandy [looking after him affectionately]. Look at him, 
boys ! Allers the same, — high - toned, cold, even to his 
pardner ! That 's him, — Jack Oakhurst ! But Jack, Jack, 
you 're goin' to shake hands, ain't ye ? [Extends his 
hand after a pause. OAKHURst takes it gloomily.] 

Col. Starbottle [who has been regarding interview with 
visible scorn and disgust, advancing to Oakhurst]. You 
will — er — pardon me if, under the — er — circumstances, 
I withdraw from this — er — disgraceful proceeding. The 
condonation, by that man, of two of the most tremendous 
offenses to society and to the code, without apology or sat- 
isfaction, Ged, sir, is — er — er — of itself an insult to the 
spectator. I go, sir — 

Oakhurst. But, Colonel Starbottle — 

Starbottle. Permit me to say, sir, that I hold myself for 
this, sir, responsible, sir, — personally responsible. [Exit 
Starbottle, glancing furiously at Sandy, who sinlcs on 
sofa laughing, j^ 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 423 

Oakhurst [^aside']- He will change his mind in half an 
hour. But, in the mean time, time is precious. [^Aloud.^ 
Sandy, come ! 

Sand?/ [rising with alacrity']. Yes, Jack, I 'm ready. 

Oakhurst. We are going [slowly and solemnly] — we 
are going to see your father. 

Sandy [dropping hack with bashful embarrassment and 
struggling to release his arm from Oakhurst]. No, Jack ! 
Not just yet. Jack : in a little while, ol' boy ! in about six 
months, or mebbe — a year. Jack ! not now, not now ! I 
ain't feelin' exactly well. Jack, — I ain't. 

Oakhurst. Nonsense, Sandy ! Consider your duty and 
my honor. 

Sandy [regaining his seat^. That 's all very well. Jack ; 
but ye see, pard, you 've known the old man for nigh on a 
j^ear, and it's twenty-five since I met him. No, Jack ; you 
don't play any ol' man on to me to-night. Jack. No, you and 
me '11 just drop out for a pasear — Jack, eh? [Taking 
Oakhurst' s arm.] Come ! 

Oakhurst. Impossible! Hush! [Listening.] It is 
he passing through the corridor. [Goes to wing r., and 
listens.] 

Sandy [crowding hastily behind Oakhurst in alarm], 
^ut, I say, Jack ! he won't come in here ? He 's goin' to 
bed, you know. Eh ? It ain't right for a man o' his years 
— and he must be goin' on ninety. Jack — to be up like 
this. It ain't healthy. 

Oakhurst. You know him not. He seems to need no 
rest [sadly]. Night after night, long after the servants are 
abed, and the house is still, I hear that step slowly pacing 
the corridor. It is the last sound as I close my eyes, the 
first challenge of the morning. 

Sandy. The ol' scound — [checking himself] — I 
mean. Jack, the oF man has suthin' on his mind. But, 
Jack [in great alarm]^ he don't waltz in upon ye, Jack ? 



424 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

He don't p'int them feet in yer, Jack ? Ye ain't got to 
put up with that, Jack, along o' yer other trials ? 

Oakhurst. He often seeks me here. Ah — yes — he 
is coming this way now. 

Sandy [in ludicrous terror']. Jack, pard, quick ! hide 
me somewhere. Jack ! 

Oakhurst [opening door r.]. In there, quick ! Not a 
sound, as you value your future ! 

l_£Jxit Sandy hurriedly r. 

Scene 2. — The Same. Enter door r.. Old Morton, 
in dressing-gown with candle. 

Old Morton. Not abed yet, Alexander ? Well, well, 
I don't blame you, my son : it has been for you a trying, 
trying night. Yes, I see : like me, you are a little nervous 
and wakeful. [Slowly takes chair and conifortahly com- 
jposes himself.] 

Oakhurst [aside]. He is in for a midnight gossip. 
How shall I dispose of Sandy ? 

Old Morton. Yes [meditatively], — yes, you have over- 
worked lately. Never mind. In a day or two more you 
shall have a vacation, sir, — a vacation ! 

Oakhurst [aside]. He knows not how truly he speaks. 
[Aloud. ] Yes, sir, I was still up. I have only just now 
dismissed the policemen. 

Old Morton. Ay. I heard voices, and saw a light in 
your window. I came to tell you, Alexander, Capper has 
explained all about — about the decoy ! More ; he has 
told me of your courage and your invaluable assistance. 
For a moment, sir, — I don't mind telling you now in con- 
fidence, — I doubted you — 

Oakhurst [in feigned deprecation]. Oh, sir ! 

Old Morton. Only for a moment. You will find, Alex- 
ander, that even that doubt shall have full apology when 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAB 425 

the year of your probation has expired. Besides, sir, I 
know all. 

Oakhurst \_start{ng'\. All ! 

Old Morton. Yes, the story about the Duchess and 
your child. You are surprised. Colonel Starbottle told 
me all. I forgive you, Alexander, for the sake of your boy. 

Oakhurst. My boy, sir ! 

Old Morton. Yes, your boy. And let me tell you, sir, 
he 's a fine young fellow. Looks like you, — looks as you 
did when you were a boy. He 's a Morton, too, every inch 
of him, there 's no denying that. No, sir. You may have 
changed ; but he — he — is the living image of my little 
Alexander. He took to me, too, — lifted his little arms — 
and — and — [^Becomes affected, and leans his head in his 
hands,~\ 

Oakhurst [rising']' You are not well, sir. Let me 
lead you to your room. 

Old Morton. No ! It is nothing : a glass of water, 
Alexander ! 

Oakhurst [aside']. He is very pale. The agitation of 
the night has overcome him. [Goes to table k.] A little 
spirits will revive him. [JPours from decanter in glass, and 
returns to Morton.] 

Old Morton [after drinking]. There was spirits in that 
water, Alexander. Five years ago, I vowed at your mother's 
grave to abandon the use of intoxicating liquors. 

Oakhurst. Believe me, sir, my mother will forgive 
you. 

Old Morton. Doubtless. It has revived me. I am 
getting to be an old man, Aleck. [Holds out his glass 
half unconsciously, and Oakhurst replenishes it from 
decanter.] Yes, an old man, Aleck ; but the boy, — ah, I 
live again in him. The little rascal ! He asked me, Aleck, 
for a " chaw tobacker " ! and wanted to know if I was the 
"oP duffer." Ha, ha ! He did. Ha, ha ! Come, come^ 



426 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

don't be despondent. I was like you once, damn it, — 
ahem, — it's all for the best, my boy, all for the best. I'll 
take the young rascal — [^aside"] damn it, he 's already 
taken me — [^aloud'j on equal terms. There, Aleck, what 
do you say ? 

Oakhurst. Really, sir, this forbearance, — this kind- 
ness — [^aside] I see a ray of light. 

Old Morton. Nonsense ! I '11 take the boy, I tell you, 
and do well for him, — the little rascal ! — as if he were 
the legal heir. But, I say, Aleck [laughing'], ha, ha ! — 
what about — ha, ha ! — what about Dona Jo vita, eh ? and 
what about Don Jose Castro, eh ? How will the lady like 
a ready-made family, eh ? [Poking Oakhurst in the 
riJs.] What will the Don say to the family succession ? 
Ha, ha ! 

Oakhurst [proudli/"]. Really, sir, I care but little. 

Old Morton [aside']. Oh, ho! I'll sound him. [Aloud.] 
Look ye, Alexander, I have given my word to you and Don 
Jose Castro, and I '11 keep it. But if you can do any bet- 
ter, eh — if — eh ? — the schoolma'am 's a mighty pretty girl 
and a bright one, eh, Aleck ? And it 's all in the family — 
eh ? And she thinks well of you ; and I will say, for a 
girl brought up as she 's been, and knowin' your relations 
with the Duchess and the boy, to say a kind word for ye, 
Aleck, is a good sign, — you follow me, Aleck — if you 
think — why, old Don Jose might whistle for a son-in-law, 
eh? 

Oakhurst [interrupting indignantly]. Sir ! [Aside.] 
Stop ! [Aloud.] Do you mean to say, sir, that if I should 
consent to this — suggestion — that, if the lady were will- 
ing, you would offer no impediment ? 

Old Morton. Impediment, my dear boy ! you should 
have my blessing. 

Oakhurst. Pardon me a moment. You have in the 
last year, sir, taught me the importance of business for- 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 427 

mality in all the relations of life. Following that idea, 
the conditions of my engagement with Jovita Castro were 
drawn up with your hand. Are you willing to make this 
recantation as formal, this new contract as business-like and 
valid ? 

Old Morton \_eagerly'\. I am. 

Oakhurst. Then sit here, and write at my dictation. 
{^Pointing to table l. Old Morton takes seat at table."] 
'^ In view of the evident preferences of my son Alexander 
Morton, and of certain family interests, I hereby revoke my 
consent to his marriage with the Dona Jovita Castro, and 
accord him full permission to woo and win his cousin. Miss 
Mary Morris, promising him the same aid and assistance 
previously offered in his suit with Miss Castro." 

Old Morton [sighing']. Alexander Morton, Sr. There, 
Aleck ! You have forgotten one legal formality. We have 
no witness. Ha, ha ! 

Oakhurst [significantly]. I will be a sufficient wit- 
ness. 

Old Morton. Ha, ha ! [Fills glass from decanter, 
after which Oakhurst quietly removes decanter beyond 
his reach.] Very good ! Aleck, I 've been thinking of a 
plan, — I 've been thinking of retiring from the bank. I 'm 
getting old, and my ways are not the popular ways of busi- 
ness here. I 've been thinking of you, you dog, — of leaving 
the bank to you, — to you, sir, — eh — the day — the day 
you marry the schoolma'am — eh. I '11 stay home, and 
take care of the boy — eh — hie ! The little rascal ! — ■ 
lifted his arms to me — did, Aleck ! by God ! [Incoher^ 
ently.] Eh ! 

Oakhurst. Hush ! [Aside.] Sandy will overhear him, 
and appear. 

Old Morton [greatly affected by liquor]. Hush ! eh I 
— of course — shoo! shoo! [The actor will here en- 
deavor to reproduce in Old Morton's drunken behavior, 



428 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

without exactly imitating him, the general characteristics 
of his son's intoxication.^ Eh — I say, Aleck, old boy ! 
what will the Don say ? eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! And Jovita, 
that firebrand, how will she — hie — like it, eh ? [Laughs 
immoderately. ] 

Oahhurst, Hush ! We will be overheard ! The ser- 
vants, sir ! 

Old Morton. Damn the servants ! Don^t I — hie — 
pay them wages — eh ? 

Oakhurst. Let me lead you to your own room. You 
are nervously excited. A little rest, sir, will do you good. 
[^Taking his arm. 2 

Old Morton, No shir, no shir, 'm nerrer goin' to bed 
any more. Bed's bad habit! — hie — drunken habit. 
Lesh stay up all ni', Aleck ! You and me ! Lesh nev'r — 
go — bed any more ! Whar 's whiskey — eh ? [^Staggers 
to the table for decanter as Oakhurst seizes him, strug- 
gles up stage, and then Old Morton, in struggle, falls 
helplessly on sofa, in same attitude as Sandy was dis- 
covered.'] 

Enter Sandy cautiously from door Jj. 

Sandy [to Oakhurst]. Jack ! Eh, Jack — 

Oakhurst. Hush ! Go ! I will follow you in a mo- 
ment ! [Pushes him hack to door l.] 

Sandy [catching sight of Old Morton]. Hallo ! 
What 's up ? 

Oakhurst. Nothing. He was overtaken with a sudden 
faintness. He will revive presently : go ! 

Sandy [hesitating]. I say, Jack, he was n't taken sick 
along o' me, eh, Jack ? 

Oakhurst. No ! No ! But go [pushing him toward 
door]. 

Sandy. Hold on : I 'm going. But, Jack, I 've got a 
kind of faintness yer, too. [Goes to side-table, and takes 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 429 

up decanter.'] And thar 's nothing reaches that faintness 
like whiskey. \_Fills glass.] 

Old Morton \_drunkenly and half consciously from, 
couch]. Whiskey — who shed — whiskey — eh ? Eh — 
O — gim'me some, Aleck — Aleck, my son, — my son ! — 
my old prodigal — Old Proddy, my boy — gim'me — whis- 
key — [sings] — 

Oh, yer 's yer good old whiskey, 
Drink it down ! 

Eh ? I com — mand you — pass the whiskey ! 

Sandy, at first panic-stricken , and then remorsefully con- 
scious, throws glass down, with gesture of fear and 
loathing. Oakhurst advances to his side hurriedly. 

Oakhurst \in hurried whisper]. Give him the whis- 
key, quick ! It will keep him quiet. [Is about to take 
decanter when Sandy seizes it ; struggle with Oak- 
hurst.] 

Sandy [with feeling]. ISTo, no. Jack, no ! [Suddenly , 
with great strength and determination, breaks from hion, 
and throws decanter from window.] No, never ! 

Old Morton [struggling drunkenly to his feet]. Eh — 
who shed never ? [Oakhurst shoves Sandy in room l.,. 
and follows him, closing door.] Eh, Aleck? [Groping.] 
Eh, where 'sh light ? All gone. [Lapses on sofa again, 
after an ineffectual struggle to get up, and then resumes 
his old attitude.] 

[Change scene quickly.] 

Scene 3. — Ante-room in Mr. Morton's villa. Front 
scene. Enter Don Jose Castro and Concho, preceded 
by Servant, l. 

Servant. This way, gentlemen. 
Don Jose. Carry this card to Alexander Morton, Sr. 



430 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Servant. Beg pardon, sir, but there's only one name 
here, sir {looking at Concho]. 

Don Jose {proudly']. That is my servant, sir. 

{Exit Servant. 

Don Jose {aside"]. I don't half like this business. But 
my money locked up in his bank, and my daughter's hand 
bound to his son, demand it. {Aloud.] This is no child's 
play, Concho, you understand. 

Concho. Ah ! I am wise. Believe me, if I have not 
proofs which shall blanch the cheek of this old man, I am 
a fool, Don Josd ! 

Reenter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Morton, Sr., passed a bad night, and has 
left word not to be disturbed this morning. But Mr. Mor- 
ton, Jr., will attend you, sir. 

Concho {aside]. So the impostor will face it out. 
Well, let him come. 

Don Jose {to Servant]. I await his pleasure. 

{Exit Servant. 

Don Jose. You hear, Concho ? You shall face this 
man. I shall repeat to him all you have told me. If you 
fail to make good your charge, on your head rests the con- 
sequences. 

Concho. He will of course deny. He is a desperate 
man : he will perhaps attack me. Eh ! Ah ! {Drawing 
revolver.] 

Don Jose. Put up your foolish weapon. The sight of 
the father he has deceived will be more terrible to him than 
the pistol of the spy. 

Enter Col. Starbottle, c. 

Starhottle. Mr. Alexander Morton, Jr., will be with 
you in a moment. {Takes attitiide by door^ puts his 
hand in his breast^ and inflates himself.] 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 431 

Concho [to Don Josi^, aside]. It is the bullying 
lawyer. They will try to outface us, my patron ; but we 
shall triumph. [Aloud.'] He comes, eh ! — Mr. Alexander 
Morton, gentlemen ! I will show you a cheat, an impos- 
tor ! 

Enter f in correct ^ precise morning dress ^ Sandy Mor- 
ton. There is in his make-up and manner a sugges' 
tion of the father. 

Concho [recoiling, aside], Diego ! The real son ! 
[Aloud J furiously]. It is a trick to defeat justice, — eh I 
— a miserable trick ! But it shall fail, it shall fail ! 

Col. Starbottle. Permit me, a moment, — a single mo- 
ment. [To Concho.] You have — er — er — character- 
ized my introduction of this — er — gentleman as a '' cheat '* 
and an ^'imposture." Are you prepared to deny that this 
is Alexander Morton ? 

Don Jose [astonished, aside]. These Americanos are 
of the Devil ! [Aloud and sternly.] Answer him, Concho, 
I command you. 

Concho [in half-insane rage]. It is Alexander Morton ; 
but it is a trick, — a cowardly trick ! Where is the other 
impostor, this Mr. John Oakhurst ? 

Sandy [advancing with dignity and something of his 
father's cold manner]. He will answer for himself when 
called for. [To Don Jose.] You have asked for me, 
sir : may I inquire your business ? 

Concho. Eh ! It is a trick, — a trick ! 

Don Jose [to Concho]. Silence, sir ! [To Sandy, 
with dignity.] I know not the meaning of this masquer- 
ade. I only know that you are not the gentleman hitherto 
known to me as the son of Alexander Morton. I am here, 
sir, to demand my rights as a man of property and a father. 
I have received this morning a check from the house of 



432 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAK 

Morton & Son, for the amount of my deposit with them. 
So far — in view of this complication — it is well. Who 
knows ? Bueno ! But the signature of Morton & Son to 
the check is not in the handwriting I have known. Look 
at it, sir. [Tb Sandy, handing check.~\ 

Sandy \_exa7nining check^. It is my handwriting, sir, 
and was signed this morning. Has it been refused ? 

Don Jose. Pardon me, sir. It has not been presented. 
With this doubt in my mind, I preferred to submit it first 
to you. 

Starhottle. A moment, a single moment, sir. While 
as a — er ^ — gentleman and a man of honor, I — er — ap- 
preciate your motives, permit me to say, sir, as a lawyer, 
that your visit is premature. On the testimony of your 
own witness, the identification of Mr. Alexander Morton, 
Jr., is — er — complete ; he has admitted the signature 
as his own ; you have not yet presented the check to the 
bank. 

Don Jose. Pardon me, Colonel Starhottle. It is not all. 
[To Sandy.] By a written agreement with Alexander 
Morton, Sr., the hand of my daughter is promised to his 
son, who now stands before me, as my former servant, dis- 
missed from my service for drunkenness. 

Sandy. That agreement is revoked. 

Don Jose. Hevoked ! 

Sandy [handing paper"]. Cast your eyes over that 
paper. At least you will recognize that signature. 

Don Jose [reads']. " In view of the evident prefer- 
ences of my son Alexander Morton, and of certain family 
interests, I hereby revoke my consent to his marriage with 
the Dojaa Jovita Castro, and accord him full permission to 
woo and win his cousin. Miss Mary Morris ; promising 
him the same aid and assistance previously offered in his 
suit with Miss Castro. — Alexander Mokton, Sr." 

Concho, Ah ! Carramba ! Do you not see the trick. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 433 

— eh, the conspiracy ? It was this man, as Diego, your 
daughter's groom, helped his friend Mr. Oakhurst to the 
heiress. Ah, you comprehend ! It was an old trick ! 
You shall see, you shall see ! Ah ! I am wise, I am wise ! 

Don Jose \aside\ Could I have heen deceived ? 
But no ! This paper that releases liim gives the impostor 
no claim. 

Sandy [^resuming his old easy manner, dropping his 
formality, and placing his hand on Don Jose's shouh 
der^ Look yar, ole man : I did n't allow to ever see ye 
agin, and this yer ain't none o' my seekin'. But since ye 're 
here I don't mind tellin' ye that but for me that gal of yours 
would have run away a year ago, and married an unknown 
lover. And I don't mind adding, that hed I known that 
unknown lover was my friend John Oakhurst, I 'd have 
helped her do it. \^Going.~\ Good-morning, Don Jose. 

Don Jose. Insolent ! I shall expect an account for 
this from your — father, sir. 

Sandy. Adios, Don Jose. [^Exit c. 

Concho. It is a trick — I told you. Ah, I am wise. 
\_Going to Don Jose.] 

Don Jose [throwing him off~\. Fool ! \_Exit Don 
Jose. 

Concho [infuriated^. Eh ! Fool yourself — dotard ! 
No matter : I will expose all — ah ! I will see Jovita ; — ■ 
I will revenge myself on this impostor ! [Is about to 
follow, when Col. Starbottle leaves his position by the 
door, and touches Concho on the shoulder."] 

Starbottle. Excuse me. 

Concho. Eh ? 

Starbottle. You have forgotten something. 

Concho. Something ? 

Starbottle. An apology, sir. You were good enough 
to express — er — incredulity — when I presented Mr. 
Morton : you were kyind enough to characterize the conduct 



434 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAH 

of my — er — principal by — an epithet. You have alluded 
to me, sir, — me — 

Concho \_wrathfully~\. Bully ! {^Aside. ] I have heard 
that this pomposo, this braggart, is a Yankee trick too ; 
that he has the front of a lion, the liver of a chicken. 
\_Alo^id.'] Yes, I have said, you hear I have said, I, 
Concho [striking his breast^, have said you are a — bully f 

Starbottle \_coolly']. Then you are prepared to give me 
satisfaction, sir, — personal satisfaction. 

Concho \raging'\. Yes, sir, now — you understand, 
now [taking out pistol"], anywhere, here ! Yes, here. Ah ! 
you start, — yes, here and now! Face to face, you under- 
stand, without seconds, — face to face. So ! [Presenting 
pistol.] 

Starbottle [quietly]. Permit me to — er — apologize. 

Concho. Ah ! It is too late ! 

Starbottle [interrupting]. Excuse me, but I feared 
you would not honor me so completely and satisfactorily. 
Ged, sir, I begin to respect you! I accede to all your 
propositions of time and position. The pistol you hold in 
your hand is a derringer, I presume, loaded. Ah — er — 
I am right. The one I now produce [showing pistol] is — 
er — as you will perceive the same size and pattern, and 
— er — unloaded. We will place them both, so, under the 
cloth of this table. You shall draw one pistol, I will take 
the other. I will put that clock at ten minutes to nin^e, 
when we will take our positions across this table ; as you — 
er — happily express it, " face to face." As the clock strikes 
the hour, we will fire on the second stroke. 

Concho [aside]. It is a trick, a Yankee trick ! [Aloud.] 
I am ready. Now — at once ! 

Starbottle [gravely]. Permit me, sir, to thank ycu, 
Your conduct, sir, reminds me of singular incident — 

Concho [angrily interrupting]. Come, come ! It is 
no child's play. We have much of this talk, eh ! It is 
action, eh, you comprehend, — action. 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 435 

[Starbottle places pistols under the clotJi, and sets 
clock. Concho draws pistol from cloth ; Starbottle 
takes remaining pistol. Both men assume position, pre- 
senting their weapons ; Starbottle pompously hut seri- 
ously, Concho angrily and nervously. "^ 

Starbottle \_after a pause']. One moment, a single 
moment — 

Concho. Ah, a trick ! Coward ! you cannot destroy 
my aim. 

Starbottle. I overlook the — er — epithet. I wished 
only to ask, if you should he — er — unfortunate, if there 
was anything I could say to your — er — friends. 

Concho. You cannot make the fool of me, coward. No ! 

Starbottle. My object was only precautionary. Owing 
to the position in which you — er — persist in holding your 
weapon, in a line with my right eye, I perceive that a ray 
of light enters the nipple, and — er — illuminates the barrel, 
I judge from this, that you have been unfortunate enough 
to draw the — er — er — unloaded pistol. 

Concho [tremulously lowering weapon]. Eh ! Ah ! 
This is murder! [Drops pistol.] Murder! — eh — help 
[retreating], help ! [JEJxit hurriedly door c. , as clock 
strikes. Col. Starbottle lowers his pistol, and moves 
with great pomposity to the other side of the table, taking 
Up pistol. 

Starbottle [examining pistol]. Ah ! [Lifts it, and 
discharges it.] It seems that I am mistaken. [Going.] 
The pistol was — er — loaded ! [Exit. 

Scene 4. — Front scene. Room in villa. Enter Miss 
Mary and Jo vita. 

Miss Mary. I tell you, you are wrong. You are not 
only misunderstanding your lover, which is a woman's 
privilege ; but you are abusing my cousin, which, as his 
relative, I won't put up with. 



436 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAE 

Jovita I passionately^. But liear me, Miss Mary. It 
is a year since we were betrothed ; and such a betrothal ! 
Why, I was signed, sealed, and delivered to^ him, on condi- 
tions, as if I were a part of the rancho ; and the very night, 
too, I had engaged to run away with him ! And during 
that year I have seen the gentleman twice, — yes, twice ! 

Miss Mary. But he has written ? 

Jovita, Mother of God! Yes, — letters delivered by 
my father, sent to his care, read by him first, of course ; 
letters hoping that I was well, and obeying my father's 
commands ; letters assuring me of his unaltered devotion ; 
letters that, compared with the ones he used to hide in the 
confessional of the ruined mission church, were as ice to fire, 
were as that snow-flower you value so much, Mary, to this 
mariposa blossom I wear in my hair. And then to think 
that this man — this John Oakhurst, as I knew him ; this 
man who used to ride twenty miles for a smile from me on 
the church porch ; this Don Juan who leaped that garden 
wall (fifteen feet, Mary, if it is an inch), and made old 
Concho his stepping-stone ; this man, who daily periled 
death for my sake — is changed into this formal, methodical 
man of business — is — is — I tell you there's a woman at 
the bottom of it ! I know it sure ! 

Miss Mary [aside']. How can I tell her about the 
Duchess ? I won't ! \\Aloud.] But listen, my dear Jovita. 
You know he is under probation for you, Jovita. All this 
is for you. His father is cold, methodical, unsympathetic. 
He looks only to his bond with this son, — this son that he 
treats, even in matters of the heart, as a business partner. 
Eemember, on his complete reformation, and subjection to 
his father's will, depends your hand. Eemember the agree- 
ment! 

Jovita. The agreement; yes! It is the agreement, 
always the agreement. May the Devil fly away with the 
agreement ! Look you. Miss Mary, I, Dona Jovita, did n't 



li 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 437 

fall in love with an agreement : it was with a man ! Why, 
I might have married a dozen agreements — yes, of a shorter 
limitation than this ! [^Crossinff.'] 

Miss Mary. Yes. But what if your lover had failed to 
keep those promises by which he was to gain your hand ? 
what if he were a man incapable of self-control ? what if he 
were — a — a — drunkard ! 

Jovita [rriusing']. A drunkard! ^Aside."] There was 
Diego, he was a drunkard ; but he was faithless. \_Aloud.'] 
You mean a weak, faithless drunkard ? 

Miss Mary. No ! [^Sadly.'] Faithless only to him- 
self, but devoted — yes, devoted to you. 

Jovita. Miss Mary, I have found that one big vice in a 
man is apt to keep out a great many smaller ones. 

Miss Mary. Yes ; but if he were a slave to liquor ? 

Jovita. My dear, I should try to change his mistress. 
Oh, give me a man that is capable of a devotion to anything, 
rather than a cold, calculating average of all the virtues ! 

Miss Mary \_aside~\. I, who aspire to be her teacher, 
am only her pupil. \_Aloud.~\ But what if, in this very 
drunkenness, this recklessness, he had once loved and wor- 
shiped another woman ? What if you discovered all this 
after - — after — he had won your heart ? 

Jovita. I should adore him ! Ah, Miss Mary ! Love 
diJBFers from all the other contagious diseases : the last time 
a man is exposed to it, he takes it most readily, and has it 
the worst ! But you, you, you cannot sympathize with me. 
You have some lover, the ideal of the virtues ; some man 
as correct, as well regulated, as calm as — yourself ; some 
one who addresses you in the fixed morality and severe pen- 
manship of the copy-books. He will never precipitate him- 
self over a garden wall or through a window. Your Jacob 
will wait for you through seven years, and receive you from 
the hands of your cousin and guardian — as a reward of 
merit ! No, you could not love a vagabond. 



438 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Miss Mary [ve^^y slowly and quietly']. Ko ? 

Jovita. Ko ! \_Passionately.'\ No, it is impossible. 
Forgive me, Miss Mary : you are good ; a better girl than 
I am. But think of me ! A year ago my lover leaped a 
wall at midnight to fly with me : to-day, the day that gives 
me to him, he writes a few cold lines, saying that he has 
business, business — you understand — business, and that 
he shall not see me until we meet in the presence of — of 
— of — our fathers. 

Miss Mary. Yes j but you will see him at least, per- 
haps alone. Listen : it is no formal meeting, but one of 
festivity. My guardian has told me, in his quaint scrip- 
tural way, it is the killing of the fatted calf, over his long- 
lost prodigal. Have patience, little one. Ah ! Jovita, we 
are of a different race, but we are of one sex ; and as a 
woman I know how to accept another woman's abuse of her 
lover. Come, come ! [^Exeunt Miss Maby and Jovita. 

Scene 5. — The draiving-room of Me. Morton's villa. 
Large open arch in centre, leading to veranda, looking 
on distant view of San Francisco / richly furnished, 
— sofas, armchairs, and tete-a-tetes. Enter Col. Star- 
bottle, c, carrying bouquet, preceded by Servant, 
bowing. 

Starbottle. Take my kyard to Miss Morris. [Exit 
Servant.] 

Starbottle. Star ! This is the momentous epoch of your 
life ! It is a moment for which you — are — I may say 
alone responsible, — personally responsible ! She will be 
naturally gratified by the — er — flowers. She will at once 
recognize this bouquet as a delicate souvenir of Red Gulch, 
and will appreciate your recollection. And the fact, the 
crushing fact, that you have overlooked the — er — nn- 
gentlemanly conduct of her own cousin Sandy, the real 
Alexander Morton, that you have — er — assisted to restore 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 439 

the ex-vaquero to his rights, will — er — er — at once open 
the door to — er — mutual confidence and — er — a continu- 
ance of that — er — prepossession I have already noticed. 
Ahem ! here she is. 

Enter Miss Mart in full dress. 

Miss Mary. You are early, Colonel Starhottle. This 
promptitude does honor to our poor occasion. 

Col. Starhottle. Ged, Miss Mary, promptness with a 
lady and an adversary is the first duty of — er — gentle- 
men. I wished that — er — the morning dew might still 
be — er — fresh in these flowers. I gathered them my- 
eelf [presenting bouquet'] at — er — er — flower stand in 
the — er — California market. 

Miss Mary [^aside]. Flowers ! I needed no such 
reminder of poor Sandy. [^Aloud.] I thank you, colonel. 

Starhottle. Ged, ma'am, I am repaid doubly. Your 
conduct, Miss Mary, reminds me of little incident that 
occurred at Richmond, in '53. Dinner party - — came early 

— but obliged to go — as now — on important business, 
before dessert — before dessert. Lady sat next to me — 
beautiful woman — excuse me if I don't mention names — 
said to me, " Star,"' — always called me Star, — " Star, you 
remind me of the month of May." — " Ged, madam," — I 
eaid, " delighted, proud ; but why ? " — " Because," she 
eaid, " you come in with the — er — oysters " — No ! Ged, 
pardon me — ridiculous mistake ! I mean — er — " you 
come in with the — er — flowers, and go before the — er 

— fruits." 

Miss Mary. Ah, colonel ! I appreciate her disappoint- 
ment. Let us hope, however, that some day you may find 
that happy woman who will be able to keep you through 
the whole dinner and the whole season, until December and 
the ices ! 

Stajbottle. Ged! excellent! Capital! \_Seriously,'\ 



440 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Miss Mary ! \_Suddenly inflating his chest, striking at* 
titude, and gazing on Miss Mary with languishing eyes. J 
There is — er — such a woman ! 

Miss Mary \_aside~\. What can he mean ? 

Starbottle \taking seat beside her~\. Allow me, Miss 
Mary, a few moments of confidential — er — confidential 
disclosure. To-day is, as you are aware — the day on which, 
according to — er — agreement between parties, my friend 
and client Mr. Morton, Sr., formally accepts his prodigal 
son. It is my — • er — duty to state that — er the gentle- 
man who has for the past year occupied that position has 
behaved with great discretion, and — er — fulfilled his part 
of the — er — agreement. But it would — er — appear 
that there has been a — er — slight delusion regarding the 
identity of that prodigal, — a delusion shared by all the 
parties except, perhaps, myself. I have to prepare you for 
a shock. The gentleman whom you have recently known 
as Alexander Morton, Jr., is not the prodigal son ; is not 
your — er — cousin ; is, in fact, no relation to you. Pre- 
pare yourself. Miss Mary, for a little disappointment, — 
for — er — degradation. The genuine son has been — er 

— discovered in the person of — er — low menial — er — 
vagabond, — " Sandy," the — er — outcast of Eed Gulch ! 

Miss Mary [rising in astonishment']. Sandy ! Then he 

was right. [Aside. ] The child is his, and that woman — 

Starbottle. Compose yourself. Miss Mary. I know the 

— er — effect of — er — revelation like this upon — er — 
proud and aristocratic nature. Ged ! My own, I assure 
you, beats in — er — responsive indignation. You can never 
consent to remain beneath this roof, and — er — receive a — 
er — vagabond and — er — menial on equal terms. The 
. — er — necessities of my — er — profession may — er — 
compel me ; but you — er — never ! Holding myself — er 
— er — responsible for having introduced you here, it is my 
T-er — duty to provide you with — another home! It is 
my — er — duty to protect — 



tt 
TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 441 

Miss Mary [^aside']' Sandy here, and beneath this roof! 
Why has he not sought me ? Ah, I know too well : he 
Aare not face me with his child ! 

Starbottle {^asidey She turns away ! it is maiden coy- 
ness. \_Aloud.'] If, Miss Mary, the — er — devotion of a 
lifetime ; if the — er — chivalrous and respectful adoration 
of a man — er — whose record is — er — not unknown in 
the Court of Honor \_drojpping on one knee with excessive 
gallantry~\ ; if the — er — measure — 

Miss Mary [oblivious of Col. Starbottle]. I will — • 
I must see him ! Ah ! [looking l.] he is coming ! 

Enter Sandy. 

Starbottle [rising with great readiness and tacf], I 
have found it [presenting flovjer']. It had fallen beneath 
the sofa. 

Sandy [to Miss Mart, stopping short in embarrass- 
ment']. 1 did not know you — I — I thought there was no 
one here. 

Miss Mary [to Starbottle], May I ask you to excuse 
me for a moment ? I have a few words to say to — to my 
cousin ! 

Starbottle bows gallantly to Miss Mary, and stiffly to 
Sandy, and exit r. A long pause ; Miss Mary re- 
mains seated pulling flowers, Sandy remains standing 
by wing J foolish and embarrassed. Business, 

Miss Mary [impatiently"]. Well ? 

Sandy [slowly]. I axes your pardon, miss ; but you 
told that gentleman you had a few words — to say to me. 

Miss Mary [passionately, aside] Fool ! [Aloud.] 
I had ; but I am waiting to first answer your inquiries 
about your — your — child. I have fulfilled my trust, sir. 

Sandy. You have. Miss Mary, and I thank you. 

Miss Mary, I might perhaps have expected that this 



442 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

revelation of our kinship would have come from other lips 
than a stranger's ; but — no matter ! I wish you joy, sir, of 
your heritage. [^Going.'] You have found a home, sir, at 
last, for yourself and — and — your child. Good-day, sir. 

Sandy. Miss Mary ! 

Miss Mary. I must make ready to receive your father^s 
guests. It is his orders: I am only his poor relation. 
Good-by, sir. [^£Jxit l. 

Sandy [watching her]. She is gone ! — gone ! No ! 
She has dropped on the sofa in the ante-room, and is cry- 
ing. Crying ! I promised Jack I would n't speak until the 
time came. I '11 go back. \_Hesitating, and looking toward 
L.] Poor girl! How she must hate me! I might just 
say a word, one word to thank her for her kindness to 
Johnny, — only one word, and then go away. I — I — 
can keep from liquor. I swore I would to Jack, that night 
I saw the old man — drunk, — and I have. But — I can't 
keep — from — her ! No — damn it ! \_Going toward l.] 
Ko! — I'llgo! lExiti., 

Enter hurriedly and excitedly Jovita, k., followed hy 

Manuela. 

Jovita. Where is she ? Where is he ? — the traitor ! 

Manuela \_entreatingly~\. Compose yourself. Dona Jovita, 
for the love of God ! This is madness : believe me, there 
is some mistake. It is some trick of an enemy, — of that 
ingrate, that coyote, Concho, who hates the Don Alexandro. 

Jovita. A trick ! Call you this a trick ? Look at this 
paper, put into my hands by my father a moment ago. 
Head it. Ah ! listen. [Reads."] " In view of the evident 
preferences of my son Alexander Morton, I hereby revoke 
my consent to his marriage with the Doiia Jovita Castro, 
and accord him full permission to woo and win his cousin, 
Miss Mary Morris ! " Call you this a trick, eh ? No, it is 
their perfidy ! This is why she was brought here on the eve 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 443 

of my betrothal. This accounts for his silence, his absence. 
Oh, I shall go mad ! 

Manuela, Compose yourself, miss. If I am not deceived, 
there is one here who will aid us, — who will expose this 
deceit. Listen : an hour ago, as I passed through the hall, 
I saw Diego, our old Diego, — your friend and confidant, 
Diego. 

Jovita. The drunkard — the faithless Diego ! 

Manuela. Never, Miss Jovita ; not drunken ! For as 
he passed before me, he was as straight, as upright, as fine 
as your lover. Come, miss, we will seek him. 

Jovita. Never ! He, too, is a traitor. 

Manuela. Believe me, no ! Come, Miss Jovita. [^Looh- 
ing toward l.] See, he is there. Some one is with him. 

Jovita [looking']. You are right ; and it is she — she, 
Miss Mary ! What ? he is kissing her hand ! and she — 
she, the double traitress — drops her head upon his shoul- 
der ! Oh, this is infamy ! 

Manuela. Hush ! Some one is coming. The guests are 
arriving. They must not see you thus. This way. Miss 
Jovita, — this way. After a little, a little, the mystery 
will be explained. [Taking Jo vitals handy and leading 
her R.] 

Jovita [going"]. And this was the correct schoolmistress, 
the preceptress and example of all the virtues ! ha \ [laugh- 
ing hysterically] ha ! [Exeunt Jovita and Manuela. 

Scene 6. — The same. Enter Servant ; opens folding- 
doors c, revealing veranda, and view of distant city 
beyond. Stage, fog effect from without. Enter Star- 
bottle and Oakhurst, r., in full evening dress. 

Starhottle [walking towards veranda], A foggy even- 
ing for our anniversary. 

Oakhurst. Yes. [Aside.] It was such a night as this 
I first stepped into Sandy's place, I first met the old man. 



444 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Well, it will be soon over. \_Aloud.'\ You have the papera 
and transfers all ready ? 

Starhottle. In my — er — pocket. Mr. Morton, Sr., 
should be here to receive his guests. 

Oakhurst, He will be here presently : until then the 
duty devolves on me. He has secluded himself even from 
me ! \_Aside.'\ Perhaps it is in very shame for his recent 
weakness. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Don Jose Castro, Miss Castro, and Miss 
Morris. 

Enter Don Jose with Jovita and Miss Mary on either 
arm. All formally salute Mr. Oakhurst, except Miss 
Jovita, who turns coldly away^ taking seat remotely 
on sofa. Coii. Starbottle gallantly approaches Miss 
Mary, and takes seat beside her. 

Oakhurst [^aside"]. They are here to see my punish- 
ment. There is no sympathy even in her eyes. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Concepcion Garcia and Mr. Capper. 

Concho [^approaching Oakhurst, rubbing his hands']* 
I wish you joy, Mr. Alexander Morton ! 

Oakhurst [excitedly, aside]. Shall I throw him from 
the window ! The dog ! — even he ! 

Capper [approaching Mr. Oakhurst]. You have 
done well. Be bold. I will see you through. As for that 
man [pointing to Concho], leave him to me / [Lays his 
hand on Concho's shoulder, and leads him to sofa r. 
Oakhurst takes seat in chair l. as Sandy enters quietly 
from door l., and stands leaning upon his chair.] 

Starbottle [rising]. Ladies and gentlemen, we are wait- 
ing only for the presence of Mr. Alexander Morton, Sr. I 
regret to say that for the last twenty-four hours — he has 
been — er — exceedingly preoccupied with the momentous 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 445 

cares of the — er — occasion. You who know the austere 
habits of my friend and — er — client will probably under- 
stand that he may be at this very moment engaged in prayer- 
ful and Christian meditation, invoking the Throne of Grace, 
previous to the solemn duties of — er — er — to-night. 

Enter Servant. 
Servant. Mr. Alexander Morton, Sr. 

Enter Old Mokton, drunk, in evening costume, cravat 
awry, coat half buttoned up, and half surly, half idi- 
otic manner. All rise in astonishment. Sandy starts 
forward. Oakhukst pulls him hack. 

Morton \thickly']. Don't rishe ! Don't rishe ! We '11 
all sit down ! How do you do, sir ? I w^ish ye well, miss. 
\_Goes around and laboriously shakes hands with every- 
body,'] Now lesh all take a drink ! lesh you take a drink, 
and you take a drink, and you take a drink ! 

Starbottle. Permit me, ladies and gentlemen, to — er 

— explain ; our friend is — er — evidently laboring under 

— er — er — accident of hospitality ! In a moment he will 
be himself. 

Old Morton. Hush up ! Dry up — yourself — old 
turkey-cock ! Eh ! 

Sandy [despairingly"]. He will not understand us ! [To 
Stakbottle.] He will not know me ! What is to be 
done ? 

Old Morton. Give me some whishkey. Lesh all take a 
drink ! [Enter Servant ivith decanter and glasses.] 

Old Morton [starting forward]. Lesh all take a drink ! 

Sandy. Stop ! 

Old Morton [recovering himself slightly]. Who says 
stop ? Who dares countermand my ordersh ? 

Concho [coming forward]. Who? I will tell you: eh! 
eh ! Diego — dismissed from the rancho of Don Jose for 
drunkenness ! Sandy — the vagabond of Red Gulch ! 



446 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

Sandy [^passionately seizing Old Morton's arrri]. 
Yes, Diego — Sandy — the outcast — but, God help me ! 
no longer the drunkard. I forbid you to touch that glass ! 

— I, your son, Alexander Morton ! Yes, look at me, 
father : I, with drunkenness in my blood, planted by you, 
fostered by you — - 1 whom you sought to save — I — I, 
stand here to save you! Go! [To Servant.] Go I 
While he is thus, I — /, am master here ! 

Old Morton [cowed and frightened'^. That voice! 
[Passing his hand over his forehead."] Am I dreaming ? 
Aleck, where are you ? Alexander, speak, I command you : 
is this the truth ? 

Oakhurst [sloiuly"]. It is ! 

Starbottle. One moment — a single moment : permit 
me to — er — er — explain. The gentleman who has just 

— er — dismissed the refreshment is, to the best of my 
legal knowledge, your son. The gentleman who for the 
past year has so admirably filled the functions of that office 
is — er — prepared to admit this. The proofs are — er — 
conclusive. It is with the — er — intention of offering 
them, and — er — returning your lawful heir, that we — 
er — are here to-night. 

Old Morton [rising to his feet"]. And I renounce you 
both ! Out of my house, out of my sight, out of my heart, 
forever ! Go ! liars, swindlers, confederates ! Drunk — 

Oakhurst [retiring slowly with Sandy]. We are going, 
sir! 

Old Morton. Go ! open the doors there wide, wide 
enough for such a breadth of infamy ! Do you hear me ? 
I am master here ! 

Stands erect, as Oakhurst and Sandy, hand in hand^ 
slowly retreat backward to centre, — then suddenly 
utters a cry, and falls heavily on sofa. Both pause : 
Oakhurst remains quiet and motionless ; Sandy^ 



TWO MEIJ OF SANDY BAR 447 

after a moment^ s hesitation^ rushes forward, and falls 
at his feet. 

Sandy. Father, forgive me! 

Old Morton \_putting his hand round Sandy's nech, 
and motioning him to door"]. Go ! both of you, both 
of you ! \_Resisting Sandy's attempt to rise."] Did you 
hear me ? Go ! 

Starhottle. Permit me to — explain. Your conduct, 
Mr. Morton, remind me of sing'lar incident in '47 — 

Old Morton. Silence ! 

Oakhurst. One word, Mr. Morton ! Shamed and dis- 
graced as I am, I leave this roof more gladly than I entered 
it. How I came here, you best know. How I yielded 
madly to the temptation, the promise of a better life j how 
I fell, through the hope of reformation, — no one should 
know better than you, sir, the reformer. I do not ask your 
pardon. You know that I did my duty to you as your pre- 
sumed son. Your real son will bear witness that, from the 
hour I knew of his existence, I did my duty equally to him. 
Colonel Starhottle has all the legal transfers and papers 
necessary to make the restoration of your son — the integ- 
rity of your business name — complete. I take nothing out 
of this life that I did not bring in it, — except my self- 
respect ! I go — as I came — alone ! 

Jovita [rushing towards him"]. No ! no ! You shall 
take me ! I have wronged you, Jack, cruelly ; I have 
doubted you; but you shall not go alone. I care not for 
this contract ! You are more to me, by your own right, 
Jack, than by any kinship with such as these ! 

Oakhurst {raising her ge^itly"]. I thank you, darling. 
But it is too late now. To be more worthy of you, to win 
youj I waived the title I had to you in my own manhood, 
to borrow another's more legal claim. I, who would not 
win you as a gambler, cannot make you now the wife of a 



448 TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 

convicted impostor. No ! Hear me, darling ! do not make 
my disgrace greater than it is. In the years to come, Jo- 
vita, think of me as one who loved you well enough to go 
through shame to win you, but too well to ask you to share 
with him that shame. Farewell, darling, farewell ! [^He- 
leases himself froiiyh Jovita's arms, who falls beside 
him.'\ 

Concho [rubbing his hands, and standing before himli. 
Oho ! Mr. John Oakhurst — eh — was it for this, eh — you 
leaped the garden wall, eh ? was it for this you struck me 
down, eh ? You are not wise, eh ? You should have run 
away with the Dona when you could — ah, ah, impostor ! 

Sandy [leaping to his feet~\. Jack, you shall not go ! 
I will go with you ! 

Oakhurst. jSTo ! Your place is there. [Pointing to 
Old Morton, whose head has sunk drunkenly on his 
breast^ Heed not this man ; his tongue carries only the 
borrowed lash of his master. 

Concho. Eh ! you are bold now — bold ; but I said I 
would have revenge — ah, revenge ! 

Sandy [rushing towards him~\. Coward ! 

Don Jose. Hold your hand, sir ! Hold ! I allow no 
one to correct my menials but myself. Concho, order my 
carriage ! 

Concho. It is ready, sir. 

Don Jose. Then lead the way to it, for my daughter 
and her husband, John Oakhurst. — Good night, Mr. Mor- 
ton. I can sympathize with you ; for we have both found 
a son. I am willing to exchange my dismissed servant for 
your dismissed partner. 

Starbottle [advancing"]. Ged, sir, I respect you ! Ged, 
sir, permit me, sir, to grasp that honorable hand ! 

Old Morton [excitedly]. He is right, my partner. 
What have I done ! The house of Morton & Son dissolved. 
The man known as my partner — a fugitive ! , No, Alex- 
ander! 



TWO MEN OF SANDY BAR 449 

Starbottle. One moment — a single moment ! As a 
lawyer, permit me to say, sir, that the whole complication 
may be settled, sir, by the — er — addition of — er — 
single letter ! The house of Morton & Son shall hereafter 
read Morton & Sons. The papers for the legal adoption of 
Mr. Oakhurst are — er — in my pocket. 

Old Morton \more soherly~\. Have it your own way, sir ! 
Morton & Sons be it. Hark ye, Don Jose ! We are equal 
at last. But — hark ye, Aleck ! How about the boy, eh ? 

— my grandson, eh ? Is this one of the sons by adoption ? 
Sandy [_emharrassedly'\. It is my own, sir. 

Capper [advancinfj']. He can with safety claim it ; for 
the mother is on her way to Australia with her husband. 

Old Morton. And the schoolma'am, eh ? 

Miss Mary. She will claim the usual year of probation 
for your prodigal, and then — 

Sandy. God bless ye. Miss Mary ! 

Old Morton. I am in a dream ! But the world — my 
friends — my patrons — how can I explain ? 

Starhottle. I will — er — explain. \_Advancing slowly 
to front — to audience.'] One moment — er — a single 
moment ! If anything that has — er — transpired this 
evening — might seem to you, ladies and gentlemen — er 

— morally or — er — legally — or honorably to require — 
er — apology or — er — explanation ! — permit me to say 

— that I — Colonel Culpepper Starbottle, hold myself 
responsible — er — personally responsible. 

Capper. Concho. 

Old Morton. Sandy. Miss Mart. Don Jose. Jo vita. Oakhubsil 

Col. Starbottle. 

[^Curtain,^ ^ 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

rAM 

Above the bones 225 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 209 

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind 49 

Affection's charm no longer gilds. 308 

An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching 261 

And you are the poet, and so you want 36 

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest 243 

As you look from the plaza at Leon west 83 

Beautiful ! Sir, j'ou may say so. Thar is n't her match in the county 115 

Beetling walls with ivy grown 306 

Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think 211 

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize 279 

Being asked by an intimate party 160 

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 74 

Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew 206 

Brief words, when actions wait, are well 244 

Brown foundling of the Western wood 238 

Bunny, lying in the grass 7 

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting 202 

Came the relief . "What, sentry, ho! '♦ 13 

Captain of the Western wood 205 

Certain facts which serve to explain 219 

Cicely says you 're a poet; maybe, — I ain't much on rhyme 124 

Coward, — of heroic size 204 

"Crying! " of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying 

too .' ' 316 

Dear Dolly ! who does not recall 246 

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way 269 

Did n't know Flynn '. 122 

Do I sleep? do I dream ? 165 

Do you know why they 've put us in that back room 323 

Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow, — I '11 do very well here alone 248 

Down the picket-guarded lane 5 

Dow'sFlat. That 's its name 118 

Drunk and senseless in his place 90 



452 INDEX OF FIEST LINES 

Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still 93 

Halt ! Here we are. .Now wheel j'our mare a trifle 188 

Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands 10 

" Have a care ! " the bailiffs cried 45 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 1 

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met 300 

Here 's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height 31 

Here 's yer toy balloons ! All sizes ! 241 

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover 299 

I nave found out a gift for my fair 291 

I mind it was but yesterday 214 

I read last night of the grand review 17 

I reside at Table Mountain, and m}"- name is Truthful James 132 

I speak not the English well, but Pachita 104 

"I was with Grant " — the stranger said 27 

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B 301 

I 'm a gay tra, la, la 309 

I *m sitting alone by the fire 157 

In sixteen hundred and forty-one 106 

It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of Angels .... 152 
It was Andrew Jackson Sutter, who, despising Mr. Cutter for re- 
marks he heard him utter in debate upon the floor 178 

It was noon b}"- the sun ; we had finished our game 142 

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma 

moved in 310 

It was the morning season of the year 98 

It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the 

wheelers 175 

June 4th ! Do you know what that date means ? £75 

Know I not whom thou mayst be 97 

Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty ? 172 

Last night, above the whistling wind 21 

Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 2M8 

Look how the upland plunges into cover * 149 

Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and 

quaint 76 

Maud Muller all that summer day 2S8 

My Papa knows j'^ou, and he says j'ou 're a man who makes reading 

for books . . .' 313 

Name of my heroine, simplj'- " Rose " 234 

No, I won't — thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin* — nol 29 

No life in earth, or air, or sky 269 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 453 

Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls 32 

Now, shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling 257 

O bells that rang, bells that sang 264 

O joy of creation 250 

O poor Romancer — thou whose printed page 267 

Of all the fountains that poets sing 70 

Oh, come, my beloved ! from thy winter abode SO^i 

Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green 280 

Oh, you 're the girl lives on the corner ? Come in — if yo\i want to — 

come quick! 318 

Our window 's not much, though it fronts on the street 320 

Over the chimne}' the night-wind sang 208 

Sauntering hither on listless wings 207 

Say there! P'r'aps 112 

Serene, indifferent of Fate , 200 

Shrewdly you question, Sefior, and I fancy 192 

So she 's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the 

train 253 

So you 're back from your travels, old fellow 163 

So you ' ve kem 'yer agen , 127 

** Something characteristic," eh ? 139 

Speak, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil I. 280 

The dews are heavy on my brow 308 

The skies they were ashen and sober 295 

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare 213 

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps 20 

They ran through the streets of the seaport town 195 

They say that she died of a broken heart 197 

This is that hill of awe 240 

This is the reed the dead musician dropped 16 

This is the tale that the Chronicle 67 

Two low whistles, quaint and clear , 217 

Very fair and full of promise 43 

Waltz in, waltz in, j'e little kids, and gather round my knee 183 

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding 155 

We hev tumbled ez dust ISO 

We know him well : no need of praise 25 

We meet in peace, though from our native East 33 

Well, you see, the fact is. Colonel, I don't know as I can come 2o 

What I want is my husband, sir 168 

What was it filled my youthful dreams 293 

What was it the Engines said 304 

When I bought you for a song 273 

Where the short-legged Esquimaux , 40 



454 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Where tlie sturdy ocean breeze 282 

Which I wish to remark 129 

Which it is not m}' style 146 

** Who comes ? " The sentry's warning cry 14 

Why, as to that, said the engineer 170 

Wondering maiden so puzzled and fair 252 

Wot 's that you 're readin* ? — a novel ? A novel I — well, darn mj' 

skinl 134 



INDEX .OF TITLES 

[The titles in small-capital letters are those of the priacipal divisions of the work; 
whose iu lower-case are single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Address (Opening of the California The- 
atre, San Francisco, January 19, 1870), 

24:'!. 

After the Accident, 168. 
Aged Stranger, The, 27. 
Alnaschar, 241. 
Angelas, The, 74. 
Arctic Vision, An, 40. 
Artemis in Sierra, 188. 
Aspiring Miss De Laine, 219. 
At the Hacienda, 97. 
Avitor, 293. 

" Babes in the "Woods, The," 139. 
Ballad of Mr. Cooke, The, 282. 
Ballad of the Emeu, The, 284. 
Battle Bunny, 7. 
Before the Curtain, 279. 
Birds of Cirencester, The, 269. 

Cadet Grey, 49. 

Caldwell of Springfield, 31. 

California Madrigal, 303. 

California's Greeting to Seward, 25. 

Chiquita, 115. 

" Cicely," 124. 

Concepcion de Arguello, 76. 

Copperhead, The, 20. 

Coyote, 206. 

" Crotalus," 265. 

Dickens in Camp, 209. 
Dolly Varden, 246. 
Don Diego of the South, 93. 
Dow's Flat, 118. 

Fate, 213. 
For the King, 83. 
Friar Pedro's Ride, 98. 
Furtlier Language from Truthful James, 
165. 

Geological Madrigal, A, 291. 
Ghost that Jim saw. The, 170. 
Goddess, The, 14, 
Grandmother Tenterden, 214. 
Greyport Legend, A, 195. 
Grizzly, 204. 
Guild's Signal, 217. 

Half an Hour before Supper, 253. 



Hawk's Nest, The, 155. 

Her Letter, 157. 

Her Last Letter, being a Reply to " His 

Answer," 275. 
His Answer to " Her Letter," 160. 
" How are You, Sanitary ? " 5. 

Idyl of Battle Hollow, The, 29. 
Idyl of the Road, An, 149. 
In Dialect, 112. 
In the Mission Garden, 104. 
In the Tunnel, 122. 

Jack of the Tules, 192. 

"Jim," 112. 

John Burns of Gettysburg, 1. 

Latest Chinese Outrage, The, 142. 
Legend of Cologne, A, 225. 
Legends of the Rhine, The, 306. 
Lines to a Portrait, by a Superior Per* 

son, 273. 
Little Posterity, 310. 
Lone Mountain, 240. 
Lost Galleon, The, 106. 
Lost Tails of Miletus, The, 299. 
Luke, 134. 

Madrono, 205. 

Master Johimy's Next-Door Neighbor, 

310. 
Miracle of Padre Junipero, The, 67. 
Miscellaneous, 195. 
Miss Blanche says, 36. 
Miss Edith makes another Friend, 318. 
Miss Edith makes it Pleasant for BrOi 

ther Jack, 316. 
Miss Edith's Modest Request, 313. 
Mission Bells of Monterey, The, 264. 
Moral Vindicator, A, 301. 
Moimtnin Heart's-Ease, The, 202. 
Mrs. Judge Jenkins, 288. 

National, 1. 

Newport Romance, A, 197. 

North Beach, 298. 

Off Scarborough, 45. 
Old Camp-Fire, The, 2.57. 
Old Major Explains, The, 23. 
On a Cone of the Big Trees, 238. 



456 



INDEX OF TITLES 



On a Pen of Thomas Starr King, 16. 
On the Landing, 323. 
Ou William Francis Bartlett, 267. 
Our Privilege, 12. 

Pabodies, 279. 

Penelope, 127. 

Plain Language from Truthful James, 
129. 

Poem, delivered on the Fourteenth An- 
niversary of California's Admission 
into the Union, 33. 

Question of Privilege, A, 178. 

Bamon, 90. 

Kelieving Guard, 13, 

" Return of BelisariuB, The," 163. 

Reveille, The, 10. 

Ritualist, The, 300. 

Bt, Thomas, 43, 

San Francisco, 200, 

Sanitary Message, A, 21, 

Second Review of the Grand Army, A, 17. 

" Seventy-nine," 172. 

Society upon the Stanislaus, The, 132. 



Songs without Sense, 308. 
Spanish Idtls and Legends, 67. 
Spelling Bee at Angels, The, 183. 
Stage Driver's Story, The, 175. 
Statiou-Master of Lone Prairie, The, 261. 

Tale of a Pony, The, 234. 

Telemachus versus Mentor, 248. 

Thompson of Angels, 152, 

Thought-Reader of Angels, The, 180. 

To a Sea-Bird, 207. 

To the Pliocene Skull, 280, 

Truthful James to the Editor, 146. 

" Twenty YearB," 211, 

Two Men of Sandy Bab, 329. 

Two Ships, The, 243. 

What Miss Edith saw from her Window, 

320. 
What the Bullet sang, 256. 
What the Chimney sang, 208. 
What the Engines said, 304. 
What the Wolf really said to Little Red 

Riding-Hood, 252. 
Willows, The, 295. 
Wonderful Spring of San Joaqui*i. The, 



BRET HARTE'S WORKS 



No American novelist of the past third 
of a century has made a more valuable 
and lasting contribution to our literature 
than that which we owe to Bret Harte. 

The Dial 



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THREE PARTNERS ; OR, THE BIG STRIKE 

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BRET HARTE'S WORKS 

COMPLETE POEMS 

Household Edition. With Portrait and Illustra* 

tions. Crown 8 vo, $1.50. 
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WORKS OF BRET HARTE 

Overland Edition. Wi th photogravure frontispieces. 
Bound in flexible leather, pocket size. 20 vols, 
narrow i6mo, each $1.75. 

Riverside Edition. With portraits. 

20 vols., i2mo, each, $1.50. 

1. The Luck of Roaring Camp, etc. 

2. Tales of the Argonauts. 

3. The Story of a Mine, etc. 

4. In the Carquinez Woods, etc. 

5. Maruja, and Other Tales. 

6. The Crusade of the Excelsior, etc. 

7. Cressy, and Other Tales. 

8. A First Family of Tasajara, etc. 

9. A Waif of the Plains, etc. 

10. In a Hollow of the Hills, etc. 

11. Thankful Blossom, Eastern Tales, etc. 

12. Poems, Two Men of Sandy Bar. 

13. Gabriel Conroy, Bohemian Papers, etc. 

14. Gabriel Conroy, Bohemian Papers, etc. 

15. Three Partners, and Other Tales. 

16. The Ancestors of Peter Atherly, etc. 

17. A Niece of Snapshot Harry's, etc. 

18. A Treasure of the Redwoods, etc. 

19. Trent's Trust, etc. With Glossary of 

Far- Western Terms, and Index to 
Prose Writings. 
go. Stories and Poems, and Other Uncol- 
lected Writings. 

The above prices are neU 



APPRECIATIONS of BRET HARTE 

"What American of the last generation has equaled 
or come anywhere near equaling Bret Harte in vigor, 
originality, unforced humor, and pathos? The man 
was an artist." New York Sufi. 

" So long as short stories are prized, a goodly number 
of his will be honorably remembered wherever Eng- 
lish is read." New York Tribune. 

" Bret Harte created for us a world of honest, whole- 
some laughter." Boston Advertiser. 

"In his own field Bret Harte was not only original 
but inimitable. His place in American literary his- 
tory is as secure as it is conspicuous." 

Chicago Evening Post. 

"Mr. Harte*s talent for the short story has never 
been equaled." Philadelphia Press. 

" No writer of the present day has struck so powerful 
and original a note as he has sounded. In his best 
tales he forgets all other literature, and sees and ^s 
possessed solely by the life he portrays." 

The Spectator, London. 

" Bret Harte will live in the English language as the 
pioneer of the short story." 

Pall Mall Gazette, I ondon, 
^1^— «■ 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Boston and New York 



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